Soul of Elves
by Solara
Summary: Legolas and Aragorn are drawn into a mystery more far-reaching than either of them knows; aided by an elf-maiden out for revenge, they face a threat that could mean death for all elves of Middle-earth...
1. The Escape

Soul of Elves  
  
By Solara  
  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.  
  
A/N: This is my first LoTR fic, which I'm a little scared to admit because people usually click away from the story when they read that- but, oh well, there it is. This story is set ten years after the War of the Ring, and while it contains many original characters and surrounds one particular one, every effort will be made to avoid the dreaded Mary Sue (and I've gotta say, in five years of reading and writing fic in several different fandoms, the true definition of "Mary Sue" is as elusive as ever. Anyone want to give me their version?). Elvish names were created using several online resources and the Silmarillion index. Hope you enjoy!  
  
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.  
  
Setting: Ten years after RoTK.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter One- The Escape  
  
-----  
  
*Keep breathing. Breathe.*  
  
Her foot snagged on a bush; she staggered before continuing her sprint. Pain slashed through her chest and head like a knife.  
  
There was blood in her mouth.  
  
*You must keep breathing! You must get away! Breathe!*  
  
But it was growing increasingly difficult for the young elf-maiden as she ran blindly through the woods; blood from her head dripped into her eyes, and her ears were filled with the roar of pain and of panic that threatened her flight. Her entire body ached; her back was a burning, wrenching, dripping mass-  
  
*A Elbereth,* she cried out in her mind. *Someone, save me!*  
  
Her pursuer was relentless. Not even her admittedly weak attempts to lose him were having the slightest effect; she had assumed that she would be able to outrun him, even in her horribly weakened, wounded state, but he persisted. She could practically smell him, could feel the weight of his boots tramping down the sweet grass and twigs of the fair wood as he ran after her.  
  
She thought of the previous night, when his foul breath had been even closer to her face, and she had drawn blood from her lip before allowing him the pleasure of hearing her cry out. No, she would not give the beast that satisfaction. Not even when-  
  
//With a snarl, the man picked her up by her hair again- her scalp ached so, but that was the least of her worries- and threw her onto her stomach... her bound hands pressed into her throbbing ribs... vaguely, as the whip was raised, she thought that she mustn't jar her ribs too much, lest the broken ends puncture her lungs- then the lash fell, and she knew no more than the blinding fire that forced the breath from her lungs in a great gasp and her own teeth biting hard on her lip, willing her not to let her screams rip from her ragged throat-//  
  
*They never did make me scream,* she thought, finding satisfaction in the memory. *Not even a sound lashing could break me.*  
  
Her feet and legs were beginning to spasm, and yet she would not allow herself to stop.  
  
Low-hanging branches bent for her, allowing her to pass unharmed; she heard her pursuer's grunts of frustration as the tree limbs thwacked back into place on top of him. *Thank you, thank you!* She willed the trees to understand, even though she knew they could not. *Hear me! I thank you!*  
  
Had she not been so well-versed in her captors' capabilities, she would have readily accepted the trees' help and climbed away, high above the ground, leaving the beastly man with his heavy boots and gear; but no, she remembered all too well what had happened three nights ago, during her first escape attempt.  
  
//She was climbing, branches reaching out to her like arms, pulling her away- she could hear her captors arguing on the ground, their voices rough- then the arrow slammed into her shoulder and she fell...  
  
"Got her! She'll not run far in this condition-"  
  
"Chop the tree up for firewood."  
  
*I'm so sorry!* she cried out with her mind to the tree. She wanted to weep, but the pain in her shoulder took her...//  
  
*He'll just shoot me down and drag me back.* She was growing desperate. *By the Valar, what has come over these men, that they could do such things to elves!*  
  
Her traveling companions had not had the opportunity to escape, nor even to fight; that much she knew. She had been gathering firewood for their camp two weeks ago when she had heard it- the distinct ringing in her ears, of danger- her instinct, which had always been more trustworthy than that of her kin, took over and she ran blindly back to the camp, dropping the firewood, her bow drawn-  
  
*Forgive me,* her mind screamed. *Forgive me, my dear friends!*  
  
//Six faces, terrified and dulled, eyes wide and dark and staring. Blood everywhere. Bows, knives, all weapons on the ground- they hadn't even drawn them.  
  
She literally choked on the death surrounding her, staggering backward a step, a ragged gasp escaping her throat. It was physically painful; her lungs wouldn't draw breath. A dull roar began in her ears and red clouded her vision as the scene hit her fully.  
  
There was nothing to shoot; the area was silent with death. She stood as still as stone, unable to move.  
  
Her best friend Miliar stared at her glassily; the eyes saw nothing. Blood trickled from the elf-warrioress' mouth. Her captain, Vorondil, lay facedown in the dirt. His arms were gone.  
  
She heard a scream, a cry so shrill and full of pain that she was shaken to her core; more so when she realized that the scream came from her. She dropped her bow. Her hands were beginning to shake.  
  
Before she could rush to them, before the horror and grief could fully take hold, a sickening feeling came over her; what felt like a dark, cold, wet blanket over her sight and sound and thoughts. She backed away, clutching her head, and knew beyond a doubt that she had to get away from the place; having enough sense to grab her bow, she turned and ran, and the men she suddenly saw coming back to the camp did not see her flee...//  
  
*Ironic,* she thought ruefully, *that the very plague that brought on my friends' deaths saved my life.*  
  
For there was no question that the grief would have killed her. Even now, as she ran, desperately trying to escape, the image of her six dead companions, warriors all, clouded her vision and threatened to choke her. A small bubble of sorrow lay deep within her chest. She squashed it down further.  
  
*I am sorry, my friends, but there will be time to mourn you later if I live through this.*  
  
Her feet pounded over the woodland, and she shuddered. She found comfort in the trees whizzing past, and felt their concern for her life strongly. She wished she had the ability to thank them. She wished more fiercely, however, for her sword and her bow and quiver- or her horse, for that matter.  
  
Her horse- was he even alive? Had the men killed that gentle, loyal beauty as well?  
  
She had been miles away from the Old Forest, from her dead friends, when the cold wet blanket had finally eased off; she had called her horse desperately, but the faithful red stallion had not come to her whistle... when she had made it safely through the Shire to Bree, she had said a prayer for her beloved companion.  
  
*Airuin, you must be all right!* she willed, wishing that she had a stronger bond with nature, wishing that she could feel her horse's life- force as many of her kin could.  
  
Her odd inadequacy frustrated her, not for the first time in her life. Sharper Elven senses would have aided her, perhaps helped her avoid capture, when they came for her in Bree.  
  
//She was outside the Prancing Pony when the wet cold blanket fell over her senses again; she wanted to scream with the agony of being shut off from the world. She fell to the ground and was only dimly aware of being grabbed up, examined, a grey-skinned face bobbing in her clouded vision... then she was bound hand and foot, bruised, hung over the side of a horse. *Where are they taking me?!* she thought frantically, her mind fuzzy and throbbing from their cursed weapon...//  
  
Blackness was beginning to dance small dots in her vision, and the pain in her body was making her sick. Her back was literally in flames. Her foot caught on a tree root, and as she stumbled slightly she felt it recoil, saddened that it had hampered the life-flight of an elf. She wiped blood from her face and chanced a look back as she ran.  
  
Big mistake- but before she could curse herself for being so foolish, the dark cold blanket was dropped on her the moment she made eye contact with the demon chasing her. With a cry, she fell to the ground, rolling into a clearing and clutching her already wounded head.  
  
The man chasing her reached her in a matter of seconds. "You-" he aimed a kick at her side, and her broken ribs screamed in her chest- "have proven to be much more trouble than I think you are worth."  
  
She rolled away and tried to rise; he aided her by grasping her hair and yanking her upright, his face close to hers.  
  
"I find you no more than a pretty little trifle, and mysterious at that; who else of your kind has hair like this?" His foul breath steamed into her nose, which wrinkled, and with a laugh he twisted her red-gold curls, dirty and matted, between his huge beefy fingers. She cringed. "But my master seems to think you are worth something, and so we will be sharing many more lovely nights together-"  
  
He was not expecting her kick to his groin, a part of his body upon which she could have vented all of her anger. His hand ripped painfully out of her hair as she spun away, the cold blanket fading slightly; she was able to make out her surroundings somewhat.  
  
Her stomach dropped. A cliff. *Manwe, what have I done to deserve this?* her mind shouted. There was nowhere to go but down- or into the arms of her captor.  
  
She was reminded just how undesirable an option that was when his blade dug into the flesh of her arm, cutting open a new wound; throwing herself back, inching towards the cliff, she faced him anew.  
  
His grey skin and black eyes were darker than usual. "You cannot run," he hissed. "My master will have you- *I* will have you. You will never escape me, my pretty little Elven princess-"  
  
Desperation and disgust slammed into her like a rockslide. *I will NOT be his slave!*  
  
Her spittle, tainted with blood, flew onto his face from a good distance away as she backed towards the precipice. "I will never be yours," she said, speaking for the first time in days, her throat ragged from the boiling liquid they had poured down it. "And you can tell your master that an elf is not so easily broken."  
  
She knew what she had to do. His eyes narrowed at her, guessing her plan.  
  
"To Mordor with you," she told him, her voice quiet, cold. She then stepped calmly off the cliff into thin air.  
  
She heard his yell of anger and the rushing of water as she fell, and sighed. *At least I ended it my own way,* she thought sorrowfully, with no fear, only relief. *Ah, Valinor, Valinor! I am ready...*  
  
Blackness took her.  
  
-----  
  
Well? What do you think? This is just the beginning of what is turning into a pretty lengthy epic on my hard drive. not to worry, recognizable characters will be present in the next chapter! PLEASE read and review! 


	2. A Reunion and a Mystery

Soul of Elves  
  
By Solara  
  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.  
  
A/N: This is my first LotR fic, which I'm a little scared to admit because people usually click away from the story when they read that- but oh well, there it is. This story is set ten years after the War of the Ring, and while it contains many original characters and surrounds one particular one, every effort will be made to avoid the dreaded Mary Sue (and I've gotta say, in five years of reading and writing fic in several different fandoms, the true definition of "Mary Sue" remains as elusive as ever. Anyone want to give me their version?). Elvish names were created using several online resources and the Silmarillion index. Hope you enjoy!  
  
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.  
  
Setting: Ten years after RotK.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Two- A Reunion and a Mystery  
  
-----  
  
"You will have to move quicker than that if you hope to beat me-"  
  
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King Elessar of Gondor, was cut off as his fair- haired companion brought his sword down with enough force to make Aragorn's wrist vibrate and sting. He winced.  
  
With a flick of the same wrist, he managed to deflect the blow, barely- his friend's sword then came flashing around again, swung skillfully and smoothly, to parry a thrust and force the Heir of Isildur to give ground.  
  
"You were saying?" Legolas replied, his voice easy and his breath undisturbed. *Curse him,* Aragorn thought; *he is not even winded.*  
  
They continued to spar, their swords striking out in every direction, always finding the other slim metal blade to clash against. Aragorn groaned aloud. "Now I remember why I stopped sparring with you," he said, breathing heavily. "You always did make my wrists ache for days afterwards!"  
  
"Ah, yes. For me, the enjoyment is in making my opponent suffer." Legolas' ironic grin flashed white from underneath his swinging silver blade.  
  
Aragorn jumped up onto a rock; they were on the plains, on a particularly rocky outcropping. If he could not make Legolas tire so easily in the arms, then perhaps his Elven friend would grow fatigued scrambling over stones, his least favorite of nature's offerings.  
  
"You attempt to discourage me with rocks!" Legolas guessed with a laugh, pursuing his friend and bringing his blade around in a low swipe. Aragorn gauged the trajectory and cast out Anduril just in time. The clear ringing of metal striking metal was like music.  
  
"I remember only too well your tendency to fall when confronted with them," Aragorn replied, swinging out with his own attack.  
  
His arms swung smoothly, flawlessly, as perfectly as they had done years ago when Aragorn had been a deadly weapon against the orcs. Legolas felt a brief flash of contentment, that Aragorn did not show the signs of his aging beyond the slight graying of his hair and beard.  
  
It was a comfort. Legolas could not imagine- did not even want to fathom- the grief that would overtake his Elven heart when age and death finally caught up with his mortal friend.  
  
Legolas jumped onto an opposite rock, now higher up than Aragorn. "I only fall when I am unsure of my footing," he shot back, bringing his sword down in a deadly, zealous arc.  
  
Too zealous, he realized at once, for Aragorn merely stepped aside. "Like... now?" he retorted as Legolas, thrown by the momentum of his swing, began to topple forwards.  
  
Flailing blindly, Legolas reached out for anything to grab onto- and his hand fell on the king's sleeve. With a devilish grin, he gripped and pulled.  
  
Aragorn's eyes widened. "Legolas, no-"  
  
They both let out a yell as they fell to the dirt below the outcropping and tumbled down a mossy hill. Rocks skittered down all around them; they rolled over and over, shouting with each bump, until finally hitting the ground at the bottom of the sharp ravine with a collective thud.  
  
The air was knocked from Legolas' lungs, but he managed to roll over and press the point of his sword gently against Aragorn's neck. "Admit it- you are beaten," he gasped, choking in air.  
  
Aragorn laughed, brushed away the sword, and rose. His lungs were fine. "Beaten at the moment, but were I so inclined, I would take advantage of your breathlessness and do real damage before you could blink."  
  
Legolas lay back on the ground, calming his breath, then got to his feet gracefully, looking around. "And where do you suppose you have gotten us now?"  
  
They were on a road besotted with mushrooms. Aragorn looked down to the West. "This is a shortcut," he said. "We'll be in the Shire in no time." His dark brow, however, was furrowed.  
  
"Right," Legolas said ruefully.  
  
Arod and Roheryn came trotting down the road towards the pair. Aragorn frowned. "Strange that it takes us a painful tumble down a hill to reach the road, yet our horses find it with no ill breath," he remarked.  
  
Legolas reached up to stroke Arod's white nose as the horse neared. "Now are you wishing you were a horse?"  
  
"Nay, my friend," Aragorn laughed as he swung up onto his own mount. "I merely wish I had their sense of direction."  
  
"It is true. You could track an orc down a river, I wager. But finding the road?" Legolas shook his head, smiling. "Ai, I sometimes wish you were a horse, too."  
  
The golden-haired Elf threw his borrowed sword back to Aragorn. "And the next time we wish to practice, it will be an archery contest. I do hate swords."  
  
They started down the road. "As if there is any practice in being thoroughly beaten and all my arrows split in half," Aragorn grumbled, rewarded by his friend's light laughter.  
  
---  
  
Cantering fairly quickly, they reached the Shire by late afternoon.  
  
"Aha, you see?" Aragorn said, a note of triumph in his gravelly voice. "A shortcut it was indeed."  
  
Legolas had to admit that the Shire was worth falling down a hill for. Green hills, lush with wildflowers, stretched as far as his extraordinary eyes could see; small clear streams, their music floating on the sweet breezy air, cut through the grass and hills like shining blue-green veins. He could hear children laughing.  
  
"This is lovely," he said aloud, the wonder clear on his fair face.  
  
Aragorn smiled. "It is good to be back," he replied.  
  
They let their horses relax into a restful walk down the main road of Hobbiton, allowing the sights and sounds of the peaceful little land, untouched by any darkness, overwhelm them. Legolas would have liked to see more trees, but his heart rejoiced when he saw how harmoniously the Hobbits co-existed with nature. Everywhere, gardens bloomed with beautiful, painstakingly-tended flowers; vines wrapped around nearly every hobbit-hole door, their broad shiny leaves glinting happily in the sun. Wildlife seemed to embrace the funny little creatures whole-heartedly.  
  
Legolas breathed deep, relishing the feeling of the sun on his hair and face. *It is good to be at peace,* he told himself. Although he missed the action, the excitement of his days with the Fellowship and the numerous battles leading up to it, he knew that nothing could ever take the place of true rest and an unharried, unendangered journey.  
  
A hobbit was kneeling in the dirt of the first hobbit-hole they passed, digging with a small trowel among scattered weeds. The small face looked up at the two riders and immediately popped in surprise; with a half-grunt, half-squeak, the hobbit sprang to his bushy, gnarled little feet and fairly dove through the door of his cozy little abode. Legolas laughed aloud when he saw, moments later, not one but two hobbit-faces pressed against the glass of the window, their eyes wide.  
  
"Skittish, aren't they?" he remarked to Aragorn, who nodded.  
  
"It's not as if any of them have ever seen an elf before," Aragorn said. "Nay, I think that count- until today, anyhow- remained just four."  
  
Warmth flooded Legolas as he thought of the four young hobbits whose lives had so touched his during the War of the Ring. They had been to Minas Tirith, of course, in a grand visit nearly a decade ago, and Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had come out to Ithilien to see the new colony, but Legolas had not seen any of them since those trips; even though the past ten years had gone quickly for him, in a flurry of royal welcomes and new adventures back home in Mirkwood, his thoughts often turned to his brave, cheerful young companions.  
  
"How I have missed them," he said softly.  
  
Aragorn heard him, and smiled. "You need miss them no longer." He raised an arm and pointed to a hobbit-hole a little way down the road, with the largest, most luxurious garden Legolas had seen yet blooming all around it.  
  
"I see that Sam put Galadriel's box of soil to good use," he exclaimed.  
  
They spurred their horses on; this reunion was far too late in coming.  
  
---  
  
"Come on then, Frodo, bring the bacon!" Pippin's voice was anxious and impatient, as usual when he was hungry.  
  
"Hang on, hang on- I'm putting together a plate." Frodo stepped into the small dining room where his three friends waited, chattering like children.  
  
There had only been two days that had passed since their return to the Shire that the hobbits had not had tea together at Bag End- and both times, they had had tea with Sam while Rosie lay in childbirth. Tea was a distinct tradition among the more diminutive members of the fellowship, possibly due to the fact that the afternoon event had been impossible during their many adventures. And, as Pippin had grumbled to the merriment of all the Fellowship, Strider and his grand White City didn't even offer it to them when they had visited ten years ago.  
  
"What's the good of a feast at night if your stomach hasn't been warmed up beforehand?" he had questioned with a slight scowl, and Strider had been nearly beside himself with mirth.  
  
Frodo set a platter down on the table and began pouring tea into small cups while his three friends reached for the meat, cheese, and bread. A knock sounded at the door.  
  
"Leave some for me, now!" Frodo called, leaving his friends as he went quickly to the door and opened it.  
  
His jaw dropped.  
  
Normally, any hobbit's jaw would drop at the sight of a man and an elf standing casually on his doorstep; but in Frodo's case, it was shock rather than fright which caused it.  
  
Aragorn and Legolas stood there looking down at him, the sunlight directly behind their heads; Aragorn's features were nearly entirely in shadow, while in Legolas' case the sun only served to set him in an ethereal golden aura. The two looked like figures out of a dream, and Frodo gaped accordingly.  
  
"Now then, Frodo," Aragorn said with a joking grin. "I believe we've made it in time for tea- aren't you going to allow us to take part in the exciting ritual we've heard so much about?"  
  
"Strider!" Frodo shouted, throwing himself at the man, wrapping his arms around Aragorn's waist. His cry brought the other three hobbits running, and Legolas soon found his own arms full with wriggling, laughing Merry and Pippin.  
  
"I can't believe it!"  
  
"When did you get here?"  
  
"Strider and Mr. Legolas here in Hobbiton, I just don't believe my eyes..."  
  
"Why did you come?"  
  
Aragorn raised his hands and waved them down. "Hold on, hold on, one at a time! We're a little tired from our journey. Will you not invite us in, Frodo?"  
  
Frodo suddenly jumped back through the doorway a little too quickly; Aragorn and Legolas both noticed. The dark-haired little hobbit held the door open wide. "Of course, come in- you're right, we were just sitting down to tea, and I'm sure there's enough here for the both of you!" His voice was hurried, tight.  
  
They stepped through, hunching over, entering the house. Legolas was the last to enter, and so he did not see Frodo's worried eyes following him in; Aragorn, however, did. He also saw Frodo give a quick, furtive look around outside before slamming the door and locking it.  
  
Pippin tugged at Legolas' sleeve. "I don't suppose you brought any of that Elvish waybread, did you?"  
  
Legolas laughed, and his eyes twinkled. He looked exactly the same as the hobbits remembered him from the days of the Fellowship- strong, slender, standing elegantly, his powerful body supple and taut as a bowstring, alert and ready for action. His hair and smooth pale skin gleamed in the late afternoon sun, giving him his usual glow. He leaned down to Pippin, his hands resting on his knees.  
  
"I've a whole pack full of it, just for the two of you," he told Merry and Pippin, who grinned happily. They had been quite taken with the sweet, filling cakes.  
  
"If it's not crushed from our little tumble," Aragorn said loudly, following Frodo carefully through the house, his back bent, ducking the chandelier. "Legolas had an unfortunate accident on some rocks earlier today and pulled me down with him."  
  
This time, Aragorn was not the only one to notice the vaguely concerned look Frodo shot Sam at the word 'accident'. Legolas furrowed his brow nearly imperceptibly, but did not question the hobbits, opting instead to diffuse their unease.  
  
"Oh, I assure you, it was no accident," came his smooth, pleasing lilt jokingly. The hobbits laughed.  
  
They reached the dining room, and Frodo pulled up two extra chairs. Legolas and Aragorn looked at them blankly, then attempted to perch on the edges of the small seats.  
  
"What brings you here? Strider, it's been ages since you were here last, I thought you'd be too busy to come again-" Frodo, who had been pouring tea, stopped his chatter abruptly and set the pot down with a thunk. Ever the nervous one, Sam jumped.  
  
Frodo's eyes were wide. "You're alone! Strider, where are your guards? I just realized!"  
  
Legolas let out a small snort. "And I, certainly, am *no* protection."  
  
Both of the visitors saw Frodo's eyes flick worriedly to the golden-haired elf on his right, then back to Aragorn before he hastily continued. "No, no, I didn't mean that- both of you are worth five guards each- but I thought it was required that you travel with guards! When we were at Minas Tirith, you were barely allowed out of the palace without an entourage!"  
  
Aragorn grinned mischievously, and the hobbits noticed that the gold circlet of royalty designating him king was missing from his brow, as well. So were the rich fabrics and thick leather that made up his garments- he was dressed, much like Legolas, in his Elven clothing of old. Besides a slight graying at his temples, and a few more weathered lines in his face, the Strider that sat before them was indistinguishable from the one who had saved their hides at the Prancing Pony all those years ago.  
  
"Well-noticed, Frodo," Aragorn replied. "It took a little convincing, but I managed to get Arwen to let me go alone. She aided in our-" he glanced at Legolas.  
  
"Escape?" the elf supplied.  
  
"-*departure* from the palace." Aragorn shot Legolas a dark look.  
  
Legolas tore a strip of bread off of the loaf and cut himself some cheese. "Yes, departure. In the dead of night, out the windows, under cloaks so we would not be recognized."  
  
Sam's eyes were wide. "You shouldn't have! And who knows how safe you are, anyway- what with everything that's been happening lately in these parts!"  
  
"What do you mean-" Aragorn began, brow furrowed, but Frodo cut him off.  
  
"Now, now. We'll have plenty of time to catch up later. More tea, anyone?" he said hastily. Merry and Pippin both raised their teacups eagerly as Aragorn and Legolas met eyes over the heads of the hobbits.  
  
*Something's going on,* Aragorn's eyes said.  
  
Legolas nodded. Something was indeed not right in the Shire- and he had a strong feeling that it had something to do with him.  
  
---  
  
Hours later, the group lay out in the grass outside the hobbit-hole, looking up at the now-dark sky. Legolas watched disdainfully as the hobbits and Aragorn puffed on pipes. He had never understood the desire mortals had to fill their lungs with foul-smelling smoke.  
  
"Sam, the gardens are beautiful," he told the round-faced hobbit, who beamed.  
  
"Lady Galadriel's dirt, I'd say- she did tell me that it'd give me the finest blooms in the Shire."  
  
"And how is Rosie?" Aragorn asked with a wink.  
  
Merry let out a laugh. "Oh, he's got her in a fine state, up to her neck in little ones!"  
  
Sam blushed. "Sam! You have had another child?" Legolas exclaimed.  
  
"Aye, a girl, and she's prettier than the flower she's named for," Frodo said.  
  
"Little Daisy. Thought we'd best keep the theme goin'," Sam said, his blush deepening.  
  
The breeze waved through the trees and grass, as if the very plants were celebrating the newborn. Legolas breathed a sigh of contentment, not for the first time. "I could stay here for a while," he said softly, to no one in particular.  
  
"Why don't you?" asked Frodo. Something about the way he said it made Legolas wonder anew at the tension in the air.  
  
"We are expected in Rivendell exactly ten days from now, and I certainly don't want to deal with Arwen if we are a single minute late," Aragorn replied. "Besides, it has been too long since I've seen my childhood home, and one of Arwen's brothers is to marry."  
  
Legolas grinned to himself, remembering the look on Aragorn's face when he had brought the news to Minas Tirith that Elladan had fallen deeply in love with a maiden of Lorien. Aiwendil, her name was, and Legolas had known her well in their youth; he thought that she and Elladan made a good match. But Aragorn... Aragorn had obviously considered his ever-youthful foster brother, the wilder of the twins, matchless.  
  
/Like myself,/ Legolas thought. He had never felt any kind of intimacy towards the opposite sex- desire, yes, of course he had felt that, but nothing that would make him want to pledge himself to a she-elf forever. /Perhaps I shall never marry./  
  
"Will Arwen be joining you there?" he heard Frodo ask Aragorn.  
  
"Yes, she waits for us. I have been... somewhat stifled of late," the former Ranger replied. "I was glad when Legolas suggested an early trip to the Shire, to visit all of you. I have not journeyed on my own for many, many years."  
  
"Then you put him up to it!" Sam cried, aiming his accusatory glare at Legolas, who smiled.  
  
"I merely told King Elessar that *I* would be going to the Shire on my way to Rivendell, and that I did not know the way and could use the help of a guide," he said. "I hold no blame for his ensuing eagerness!"  
  
Sam scowled, but it was good-natured. It was difficult to stay mad at Legolas, whom none of the hobbits had ever seen speak an ill word or get angry at anyone- except in battle, of course.  
  
Yes, Legolas was downright terrifying in battle. Beautiful, but terrifying. That much they knew for certain.  
  
"If you're going to Rivendell," Sam said suddenly, "then you will be passing near to Bree!" His voice held concern; Legolas and Aragorn had had enough.  
  
"Again you mention this- Frodo, will you not tell us?" Aragorn said, sitting up. Frodo did the same.  
  
His blue eyes were very round, his face serious. "Well," he said. "We have been hearing stories of strange men in these parts. Men with grey faces and skin, and black hair, dressed in black. They ride grey horses. And there have been, in the last two years, three elves-" he glanced apologetically at Legolas- "who have been found dead in the woods outside Bree, between the Shire and Rivendell."  
  
Legolas sat up quickly. He had heard of these deaths- two elves from Imladris, and one from Lorien- but he had not known of their circumstances, had only mourned them with his family and friends in Mirkwood.  
  
"They were near to Bree?" he asked, confused. "I knew of their passing, but I did not know they had died away from their homes!"  
  
Frodo nodded gravely. "And the odd thing about it all- as if elves dying isn't odd enough in itself- is the way they died. No fatal wound could be found on the bodies. The last one was just six months ago, when Sam and I went to Bree earlier this year. We were there when they found her."  
  
Her. "Then it was Lauromen," Legolas murmured. Aragorn bowed his head- the young archeress of Rivendell had been a friend of Arwen's, and his wife had grieved heavily for several weeks after the news came to Minas Tirith.  
  
"Lauromen. Pretty name," Sam remarked quietly. "It was such a shame, everyone in such an uproar when they found her- no weapons, no wounds, nothing. Just... lifeless. And her skin was all grey." He shuddered. "I ain't never seen anything like it."  
  
Aragorn looked startled. "Her skin was grey?"  
  
"Yes. Grey, like the men they've been seein' 'round here. It was frightenin', really."  
  
*So this is why they have been concerned that I am here,* Legolas realized. *They think I'm going to be killed by some odd creature.*  
  
Frodo tapped his pipe against his knee and frowned, as if he was thinking hard about something, then looked up. "There's something else," he said. "But I'm not sure if I want to tell you, because I don't want you two running to Bree and getting into danger because of me."  
  
Sam folded his arms. "*I* sure wouldn't tell 'em," he asserted.  
  
Aragorn smiled his most convincing, trustworthy smile. "Surely you must know that we'd find out anyway," he said. "And we're already going to Bree. Tell us, Frodo."  
  
Frodo looked warily from Aragorn to Legolas, then sighed. "All right. But now I'm going to be worried- especially for you," he warned, nodding to Legolas. "About two weeks ago, an elf was seen in the Shire, here in Hobbiton, actually."  
  
"I saw her!" Pippin's head had come up at that one. "Merry and I did, didn't we?"  
  
"Yes, yes... we were exploring the south end of the woods when we saw her sneaking along the stream-bank. She had her bow and arrows with her, and she looked like she'd been spooked half to death-" Merry shrugged, realizing his mistake- "or, you know, whatever."  
  
"She had no horse?" Legolas asked. He couldn't imagine an elf traveling this far from Rivendell without their horse.  
  
"No, no horse. She looked like she wasn't herself, really. And she was an odd one, she was- if we hadn't seen her ears we wouldn't have known she was an elf. We watched her make her way east, then we ran back here."  
  
Aragorn frowned. "I detected no murmur of elves among the hobbits here," he said. "Were you planning on keeping this a secret?"  
  
Frodo took over with a slightly sheepish look. "I was going to send a message to you when the next rider came," he told his imposing friend. "And honestly, we expected she was just lost from her party- though I've never heard of an elf to get lost," he added, almost to himself.  
  
"Well." Aragorn took a drag from his pipe. "That is interesting indeed. What does this lost elf-maiden have to do with Bree?"  
  
"That's the thing," Sam said, rubbing his arms against a sudden chill in the soft breeze. "Frodo and I just got back from our trip to Bree, and when we were there we stayed at the Prancing Pony; and old Mr. Butterbur told us that the she-elf had come in, all banged up and lookin' a fright, and gotten a room. But then- she was captured." Sam's voice exaggerated the last word dramatically.  
  
Legolas practically leapt to his feet. "Captured!" he cried. For any elf to be lost and alone was a dangerous thing indeed, but to be captured... that could veritably start a war with the Elfkind!  
  
Frodo's eyes were, if possible, wider than before. "Butterbur said he saw the whole thing. It was those men, the grey ones; they came riding up and she dropped all of the sudden, like, like-" he struggled for words- "like she'd been poisoned, or something. And they took her right away."  
  
"He watched this happen and did not do anything?" Legolas' voice was incredulous, but still quiet.  
  
"These men, they're scary- they could have killed the whole tavern!" Sam spoke up.  
  
*Still,* thought Legolas, annoyed. *I thought men were grateful enough to elves that they would intervene when one was being violently snatched off the street.*  
  
Aragorn, as if sensing his turmoil, put a hand on Legolas' shoulder. "Well," he said, his voice serious. "Now it's settled. We must go to Bree and try to pick up the trail of this lost elf-maiden. We cannot leave her to this terrible fate."  
  
Frodo sighed, looking very sad. "I knew I shouldn't have told you," he said glumly.  
  
Sam, too, was despondent. "Don't you understand- they're after elves!" he cried, wringing his hands and sending pipe-ash floating out over the air. "Mr. Legolas isn't safe in these parts!"  
  
Legolas shook off his anger and smiled at Sam. "Do not worry, my friend. I shall be fine. I always have been, for many, many years, through worse dangers than this."  
  
Sam and Frodo would not be assured, however, and when Aragorn and Legolas set off the next morning for Bree, they could not help but notice how tightly they were embraced beforehand.  
  
---  
  
So, what happened to the lost elf? Who are these mysterious Grey Men? Next chapter coming soon! Please don't forget to review! 


	3. A Cry in the Night

Soul of Elves  
  
By Solara  
  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.  
  
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! For those who are wondering, here's a small announcement: I don't plan to make this story a romance in any way. Legolas is *mine*! (Hee, okay, no. But I wish.) In all seriousness, though, I really don't expect that this will be a romance of any kind, unless the characters truly pull me in that direction, which I don't see happening. No, no slash, no LegsyRomance, and NO Mary Sue. Lots of O/Cs, though. Okay, enough from me, here's Chapter Three!  
  
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.  
  
Setting: Ten years after RotK.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Three- A Cry in the Night  
  
-----  
  
They were well down the road by midday; Legolas had tried to set a regular pace, but the tension in his muscles would not allow it, and Arod had sensed his master's urging to go faster. Faster he went. His hooves pounded on the dirt road and sent up small clouds of dust behind him.  
  
Aragorn matched Legolas in pace, but not in eagerness. While he was definitely concerned about the captured elf they were supposed to be looking for, he was more concerned for the safety of his friend; Frodo and Sam had looked quite frightened of the so-called Grey Men, and Aragorn was troubled by the description.  
  
*Grey skin,* he thought wildly. *Grey skin. How is that possible?*  
  
The news of the three dead elves, and now the one captured, had set a small stone of worry growing in his gut. Legolas had been speaking the truth when he had reassured the hobbits about his safety; Aragorn knew for a fact that Legolas had indeed kept himself alive and relatively unscathed, through many battles and a harsh war, for more than a thousand years. While the golden-haired Mirkwood prince was still considered young by elf standards, Aragorn tended to think that ten centuries was more than enough time for a warrior to prove he could take care of himself.  
  
Still... this was no ordinary enemy lurking somewhere in the Old Forest near Bree. These were men, unearthly men by the sound of it, and the dead elves had been likewise changed. Grey skin. That was what troubled Aragorn most of all- no fatal wound, and grey skin.  
  
He glanced at Legolas, his own face safely shadowed by the sun beating down on his head. Only someone who knew the elf well would be able to read those finely sculpted features; Aragorn could see confusion and worry written all over it, and a distinct darkness. It was a stark contrast against Legolas' fair face and shining hair, which fluttered gently in the breeze created by the horses' gentle gallop.  
  
He felt a sudden surge of protectiveness. *If anything happens to him... I will never forgive myself.* To deprive the world of such a beloved, essential creature would be unthinkable.  
  
*No,* he thought. *Perhaps we will not tarry long in Bree, and simply deliver the news to Rivendell.*  
  
But he had a sneaking suspicion that Legolas would never allow the mystery to remain unsolved.  
  
---  
  
Aragorn had been watching him for nearly five miles now. They were reaching the Old Forest, and Legolas thought he would explode if his friend did not stop staring at him.  
  
"You know, for someone who grew up with elves, you have surprisingly little esteem for their senses," he finally said through clenched teeth.  
  
He heard a small chuckle and looked at Aragorn, who was now looking out at the road. "Forgive me," the dark-haired king replied. "I was lost in thought."  
  
"I know what you were thinking." This time he sensed Aragorn's head fairly whip towards him, but he continued anyway. "You were thinking about how I am in danger, and you would rather spend less time in Bree and go quickly to Imladris."  
  
From the way Aragorn's silver-blue eyes dropped, Legolas knew he had hit the mark. "Aragorn," he said, exasperated. "I do not feel any fear. These Grey Men pose little threat to me."  
  
"You *never* feel fear- that is why you are so often in peril," Aragorn retorted, half-joking. Legolas shook his head.  
  
"You are wrong. I just feel fear differently than you do." His voice quieted. "I fear for the elf who is lost, and I fear for Imladris. This is all happening much too close to your childhood haven."  
  
Aragorn was silent, and Legolas looked sideways at him again, knowing his words had hit home. "Do you not realize that if one elf is in danger, all elves are in danger? I see little choice but to do as much as I can to help this lost elf-maiden, and find out exactly what breed of man is capable of such an atrocity."  
  
This time, Aragorn did look up. "I will not try to alter your resolve," he said softly, his rough voice tight. "But we must be careful."  
  
Legolas laughed, and it lightened the mood considerably. "When am I not, Elessar?"  
  
---  
  
They made camp on the outskirts of the Old Forest that night. Their campfire had grown to a pleasant blaze and they were unwrapping their stores of cheese, lembas, and dried fruit when Aragorn spoke. "So, Elladan is to marry."  
  
Legolas grinned. "You're still coming to terms with it, aren't you?"  
  
"I just find it hard to believe that the same Elladan who made a career out of pulling practical jokes on every elf in Rivendell- and me, no less- would be able to find a maiden who would have him." Aragorn took out his knife and began slicing his chunk of cheese, matching the strips with bits of the lembas.  
  
Legolas watched him amusedly; the former ranger had not been so dainty about his food ten years ago. "Aiwendil is a close friend of mine," he replied. "She and I trained in Lorien together when we were much younger. She is as formidable a warrior as Elladan, and has a mischievous side that nearly rivals his- also a temper that will keep him in line. And she is very beautiful."  
  
He paused, remembering his friend's long, white-blonde hair, perfectly straight without a single wave, much like his own and so rare for elf females. In fact, it was often said in Lorien that Aiwendil and Legolas looked like brother and sister, so close in looks were they; even Aiwendil's eyes were the same silver-gray of the Mirkwood prince. *She nearly matched me in skill with a bow, too,* he thought ruefully.  
  
Aragorn caught his friend's sidetracked look and chuckled. "You wouldn't be feeling any regret over her match with Elladan, would you?" he said with a wink.  
  
Legolas shook his head. "No, no. Aiwendil is too close to me- in fact, I was just thinking about how people often mistake her for my sister. She and I... would not make a good match." His nose wrinkled slightly. "But she and Elladan are quite perfect for each other. I am glad they discovered their feelings."  
  
Aragorn shrugged and moved to stir the fire. "Well, Arwen nearly fell over when she heard the news, as did I. It will be interesting to meet the maiden who was able to tame one of the twins."  
  
"Tame, indeed." Legolas found the word humorous, and an apt description for Aiwendil's hold over Elladan.  
  
"Do you think that you will ever marry?"  
  
The question had come out of nowhere, and Legolas was a little shocked at Aragorn's boldness; it took him a moment to recover his senses and find his tongue. Aragorn sat patiently, watching the surprise fly across his friend's face.  
  
"Well-" Legolas truly had no answer. "I do not know. That is the truth." He looked sideways at Aragorn. "Why the sudden curiosity?"  
  
Aragorn popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering carefully. "You have never spoken of a lady, nor given a second look to any of the maidens of Mirkwood or Imladris, as long as I have known you," he replied casually, by way of explanation. "And there are many, especially in Mirkwood, who warrant a second look." His words were heavy with meaning.  
  
Legolas looked at the fire and thought for a moment. "I have always seen beauty in the maidens, and even have I noticed it in human women," he said, watching as Aragorn's brows raised ever-so-slightly. "But I have never had the desire to take a wife." He grinned. "I also would not want to inflict myself upon anyone- I seem to be too good at getting into trouble."  
  
His friend chuckled and shook his head. "Too true. But you must know that there are maidens in Imladris who refuse to look for a match, so certain are they that once you come to your senses you will choose them."  
  
This was news to Legolas, who had always infuriated Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir with his obliviousness to the she-elves fawning over him during his visits. As far as the opposite sex was concerned, to Legolas, females like Aiwendil and Arwen and his sisters were great companions and sometimes admirable beauties, nothing more.  
  
"My father was never worried about it," Legolas mentioned. "I remember how he used to hound Arafail and Losilad incessantly about taking wives... but I am so much younger than they, and so far from the throne. I think my father considers it unnecessary to find me a match." He smiled. "To my great relief."  
  
"Relief?"  
  
Aragorn's eyebrows were raised yet again. Legolas looked at him plaintively. "Perhaps I am not meant for marriage," he said with a shrug.  
  
Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of something moving through the woods quickly to their left. Sword and bow were drawn and raised before the pair had even gotten fully to their feet.  
  
Legolas squinted through the trees in the darkness. He did not see anything, but he felt a definite presence; something was there, beyond a doubt.  
  
"What do you see?" Aragorn whispered, his own eyes straining in search.  
  
Wind whistled through the trees. The fire crackled. Besides those sounds, all was silent.  
  
Legolas let out a slow breath. "I see and hear nothing," he said. "But-"  
  
A sudden movement, and he and Aragorn were thrown apart with a cry when a magnificent stallion ran into the camp, right at Aragorn, rearing back on its hind legs. The horse was a most unusual color, a dark red, and in the glow of the firelight it looked like the color of blood.  
  
"Get down!" Legolas yelled at Aragorn, who was trying to dodge the horse's flailing hooves.  
  
A powerful whinny came out of the horse, and Legolas ran forward; its front hooves were inches away from coming down on Aragorn's head-  
  
"Tulin, tulin!" he cried. "Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye!"  
  
The horse's legs came down and Aragorn kneeled, flinching away as the hooves whistled past his head. He breathed a sigh when he saw Legolas stroke the horse's head.  
  
He rose. "Where did he come from? He understood you!"  
  
Legolas' brows were knit in confusion. "He must belong to an elf."  
  
"I have never seen a horse this color, not even among the Mearas," Aragorn said quietly, moving to touch the magnificent red stallion.  
  
It shied away with another menacing whinny. "Mellonro," Legolas soothed, but the horse still would not allow Aragorn's touch.  
  
Legolas frowned. "Perhaps he has had a bad experience with men," he reasoned, seeing the bewilderment on Aragorn's face.  
  
Interrupting them again, the horse suddenly turned and walked away into the trees. "Ava linnalye!" they both cried.  
  
The horse turned, then flicked its head in the universal request to follow; the two friends looked at each other, both equally confused.  
  
"I suppose we should see what he has to show us," Aragorn said with a shrug.  
  
---  
  
In the dull thrum that was unconsciousness, she felt safe.  
  
*Miliar?* she thought. *Where are you? Am I dead?*  
  
But Miliar did not come; oddly, she was not distressed in the slightest. Rather, she was aware only of floating gently on a cool breath of painlessness. Light flickered past her, waving and splintering through her vision like tiny candles in a strong wind- yet her eyes were closed.  
  
*My eyes are closed.* The lights must be in her mind. *That makes sense- why am I uneasy? I'm dead. I fell off a cliff into a river and I died.*  
  
Something else had begun to grip her, though, a tight fist, closing around her chest and waist and head. It wasn't painful; however, she knew somehow that it shouldn't be there.  
  
Her hands and arms were very heavy. The lights flashing in her mind started to go away. *By the Valar, what is going on?* she thought impatiently, and then a picture of Celeborn rose in her head, shaking his head.  
  
"You never were able to wait for things to explain themselves," he told her, a familiar glint in his eyes.  
  
Galadriel was suddenly there as well. "Where am I?" she tried to call to the Lady of Lorien, the formidable-yet-gentle elf queen who had been like a mother to her.  
  
But Galadriel put a finger to her lips; she looked serious. "You must open your eyes, Caranna," her soft, commanding voice came.  
  
Celeborn and Galadriel were growing dimmer. "Wait!" she called, trying to reach out to them, and in that moment, her hand touched air.  
  
Her eyes flew open.  
  
She was underwater.  
  
*Manwe, I'm underwater,* she gasped in her mind, horrified, and scrabbled with her hands to reach the air. The tight fist around her chest became a vise of fire; what sounded like a thousand dwarven hammers clanged noisily in her head. Her lungs felt very heavy, and as she moved up towards the air and the light, she felt blackness begin to cloud the edges of her senses-  
  
Caranna burst out of the river like a geyser shooting out of the ground. Her battered lips parted and she sucked in air; oxygen flowed down through her throat.  
  
Immediately, she was coughing and spluttering. There was nowhere for the air to go; her lungs were full of water, which wrenched out of her body like knives carving up her windpipe. She spasmed violently, stars flying through her still-cloudy vision, as her body desperately tried to rid itself of the ill-placed liquid.  
  
Once she had spit out the last of the water and her breathing had slowed to a halting, raspy wheeze, she attempted to move.  
  
Mistake. Pain sliced through every pore of her being. The dwarves in her head started pounding away again, and the stiff vise around her torso threatened to choke her anew. Gasping, trying to stay conscious, she concentrated on compartmentalizing the pain and figuring out exactly where she was injured- and how badly.  
  
Her ribs were ruined, she surmised with a groan; she'd be surprised if there remained more than three unfractured ones. The heavy beatings she had taken had focused in on her torso, so it came as no surprise. And she had obviously given her head quite a whack when she fell off the cliff. A stinging on her forehead alerted her to the gash that oozed blood into her eyes; another sting, and, looking down at her arm, she remembered the wound her captor's knife had made just before she jumped. With a groan, she identified the stabbing, shooting ache in her left shoulder as a dislocation.  
  
*A Elbereth, how in the world am I still alive?!*  
  
She should have been dead. She had expected to die when she jumped, had been perfectly prepared for it- and yet here she was, by all rights alive.  
  
She heard Galadriel's voice again suddenly. "You are still in danger... you must get to the shore..."  
  
*The shore?* She craned her neck, wincing as the bruised flesh rubbed against the wet collar of her tunic. It was night, early night by the position of the moon; stars shone in the sky without a single cloud to cover them. She looked around. Rocks surrounded her, and through a gap in the stone formation, she could see the pebbly bank of the river she was in, less than ten feet away.  
  
Next she tried to figure out where she was in comparison, careful not to move any more than was absolutely necessary. She was still in the water, that much was clear, but she was stationary, and resting against something hard-  
  
Ah. A log. *So the trees come to my rescue once again,* she thought. *Oh, I wish they could hear my thanks.*  
  
She lifted her right hand. It shook, and the effort sent stars shooting past her eyes again, but with gritted teeth, she managed to push off from the log; as she had suspected, it was held securely among the rocks surrounding them, and her action caused her to roll over in the water to another, larger rock. With her good hand, she grabbed it.  
  
*Progress.* She gripped the rock as tightly as she could, aware of the weak but still-present current that pulled at her constantly. After a few minutes, when she had wheezed enough air into her lungs, she set her sights on the next stone over and pushed off.  
  
Again, she rolled over in the water, the cool liquid sloshing around her gently as she careened towards the next rock. She hit and grabbed on tightly, the effort again expending all of the energy she had built; she stopped and gasped for air, waiting for the trembling in her muscles and bones to subside.  
  
For the next ten minutes she pushed off, rolled, grabbed, and recuperated her way to the edge of the outcropping. Her arm was beginning to seize up, and the knife wound was now streaming blood at an alarming rate. As she clung to the last rock before she shore, gasping in huge, choked breaths of air, she tried to guess the distance between her new position and the shore.  
  
It lay but five feet away- but to her, it was an impossibly wide, yawning gap.  
  
She could barely breathe, and she was dimly aware that, above all else, she had to twist her torso as little as possible; one of her broken ribs puncturing a lung would mean a certain, painful, slow death, drowning in her own blood.  
  
"Grace give me strength..." she whispered aloud, then, gathering every last bit of resolve, she pushed off with all her might.  
  
She rolled over in the water and was moving along quite smoothly when, suddenly, she stopped. In the millisecond it took her to realize that her foot was caught on a plant, her head slipped beneath the water.  
  
*No!* She struggled wildly for a moment, adrenaline pumping through her, as she grew lightheaded. Her foot came free and she kicked out-  
  
A sickening crunch somewhere in her torso made her flinch. Then the pain receptors, previously numbed by the adrenaline, came back to life.  
  
She couldn't help a scream. She was back above water now, her back resting on the shore, sideways against the gentle current of the riverbank; she had reached her destination and was safe but for the fact that her ribs had scraped soundly against each other in her chest.  
  
The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Not even when she was being whipped by those horrible grey men had she felt such pain as this. Tears ran down her face and she sobbed, wheezing harder, trying to take in air but hampered by the red-hot knife twisting round and round in her chest-  
  
Blood.  
  
She tasted it in her mouth, a small amount at first, and then a steady trickle. "No," she whimpered. "No, no..."  
  
Breathing was becoming more difficult. She realized, sickened, that she had indeed slashed a hole in one of her lungs with her movement. She realized further that her death would not be quick. It could be as much as a full day before her lungs would finally be full and she would not be able to draw any more breath... and she would suffocate, alone.  
  
Galadriel was not there anymore. Caranna was utterly isolated.  
  
*Someone, be here,* she prayed. *Please. Let someone find me.*  
  
---  
  
They had followed the blood-red stallion on their own horses for what seemed like several hours; Legolas could sense Aragorn's weariness from a few feet away. They still had not slept, and as their supper had been interrupted, this wild chase was getting quite tiresome. They were well into the Old Forest now, winding along through the trees, the sky black and the woods dim. The pale moonlight set every leaf shining gloriously. Legolas would have been almost enjoying himself if not for the strange circumstances.  
  
"Where on Earth is he taking us?" he heard Aragorn grumble, and he looked to his right. Roheryn's chocolate coat gleamed in the moonlight, while Aragorn himself seemed to soak up all light; his dark clothes, hair, and cloak, inky black and depthless in the night, made him look almost like a Nazgul.  
  
*Hidden*, Legolas thought ruefully. *He's camouflaged.* He could only imagine what the moonlight, by contrast, was doing for his golden hair, pale skin, and white horse. *I never was able to hide from the light.*  
  
"Really, Legolas, I must question our current course of action," Aragorn said more loudly, an edge to his voice. "We're going in the opposite direction from Bree. Who knows whose horse this is?"  
  
"Maybe it belongs to her," Legolas replied, no question as to whom he meant.  
  
Aragorn sighed. "Even if it does, we are so far into the forest that we are, if anything, moving away from her trail-"  
  
As soon as he had spoken the words, he stopped, halting his horse and staring at a spot on the ground.  
  
"What is it?" Legolas began, but his friend held up a hand as he slid almost silently from Roheryn. He stooped and picked up a broken branch.  
  
"Why do you-" But he was cut off again as Aragorn held the branch out to him. Legolas peered at it in the moonlight. It had been freshly snapped, that much was clear, and there were streaks on it...  
  
"That's blood," he whispered, and Aragorn, who had already begun to look around through the trees, nodded.  
  
"Something's here," the former ranger said warily.  
  
What happened next was so startling that Legolas could not help a cry. Something fell over him, something wet and cold and dark, like a massive piece of soaking cloth over his senses; he couldn't see or hear or sense anything but the pounding of his own heart and the sudden sick chill that swept over his skin.  
  
He felt like he was drowning in fear and agony. He clutched at his head, his dark isolation terrifying and painful; with a gasp, he slid from Arod's back and crashed to the ground.  
  
"Legolas!"  
  
But the elf couldn't hear his friend's cry; he was sliding back into darkness, the freezing cold of the wet cloth seeping into his mouth, choking off his very breath. A dull roar began in his ears, fuzzy, then grew suddenly in magnitude until it was deafening. Legolas cried out anew.  
  
And then, abruptly, it ended. Legolas lay on the ground, gazing up at the stars, gasping and shaking more violently than he ever had in his life.  
  
Aragorn was kneeling beside him, looking quite desperate. "Legolas! Can you hear me?" he shouted. Legolas winced.  
  
"I hear you," he replied quietly, then sat up. He was vaguely aware of Aragorn's hand on his back as he did so. The cold had left him, but a chill remained in his nose and throat, and the roar in his ears was now a dull hum.  
  
His bow was on the ground next to him, and he picked it up as he got to his feet. "There's someone here. Something just happened- I don't know exactly what, but there is a shadow nearby," Legolas murmured hoarsely.  
  
Aragorn looked more concerned about his friend's disheveled, shaken appearance, but he drew his sword alongside Legolas. They listened, standing back-to-back, a hundred times more tense than they had been mere seconds ago when Aragorn had first jumped off of Roheryn's back. It was all too reminiscent of their first trip to Fangorn, when they had been sure the White Wizard was lurking to cast a spell on them...  
  
The trees were still. Insects chirped and the wind sighed around the leaves and limbs of the plants. The moonlight was brighter now, and Legolas began to see more blood, streaking against the bark of the silvery trees. He took a step forwards.  
  
"Legolas!" Aragorn whisper-shouted, but the golden-haired elf continued into the forest, illuminated silver by the moonlight. He had no choice but to follow, beckoning to the horses.  
  
The forest was growing thicker; the undergrowth was perilous enough to trip them if they were not careful. Aragorn noticed the blood on the trees as well, and followed Legolas' slender form through the brush, moving errant branches and leaves out of his way and frowning at the blood that smeared his hands when he did so.  
  
"Something terrible happened here," Legolas said, more to himself than Aragorn. More broken branches littered the ground, and it looked distinctly as if someone had run through the path recently at a wild pace.  
  
"There was a chase," Aragorn murmured. "Someone was being chased-" He sped up slightly, coming up to Legolas, and staring at a bloody handprint on a tree. "Someone who was wounded."  
  
They were close to jogging now, the path even clearer, as if a sword had slashed through the very spot; Legolas spied a scrap of cloth clinging to a bush and grabbed at it. The cloth was soft but dirty, and stained with blood; even through its soil, he could discern its make and color- and its distinct fine weave.  
  
"An elf!" he exclaimed, breaking into a run over the trail that had been cut. The ground was growing grassy, the moonlight brighter... they ran into a clearing.  
  
The horses whinnied nervously, having come this far with no explanation; Legolas and Aragorn stood still, trying to put together the scene. There was blood in the grass in one set of tracks, and the other tracks were larger and much heavier. Both sets led, twisting, to the edge of a cliff.  
  
"Oh, no." Aragorn, whose tracking abilities were sharper than his friend's, ran quickly to the edge of the cliff and looked down.  
  
A river rushed below, though not incredibly far down- certainly not as far as Aragorn himself had once fell. "The elf fell from this precipice," he told Legolas. "Come. I can see a way down."  
  
They moved to the horses. "Do you think it wise to lead them down?" Legolas asked absently, eyeing the dark path, which he now saw wrapped around the cliff and led down to the water.  
  
"The other option is leaving them here, but I do not like the feeling of this wood," Aragorn said. "And judging by what we have found, and what just happened to you..." He trailed off.  
  
Legolas shook his head, still feeling a chill from his ordeal. "I know not what it was that attacked me; it felt like I was drowning. My senses were completely smothered." He shivered involuntarily, then drew himself up when he caught Aragorn's worried glance. "But I am fine now," he added. "It passed as suddenly as it came."  
  
"I think there was someone there," Aragorn replied, his voice quiet. "I'm almost glad for the blood on the trees, leading us away from that place."  
  
They picked their way down the trail in the dark, taking care with their footholds and holding tightly to their horses. Legolas was struck suddenly. "That horse," he cried, "the red one. Where did it go?"  
  
As if in answer, a whinny in the distance sent them hurrying down the trail at a quicker pace than before. The moss slid beneath their feet, growing ever damper, and rocks began to jut out of the soil; they could hear the lapping of water.  
  
They came to solid ground at the end of the downhill trail and saw the blood-red stallion near the edge of the water, its head behind a rock. Legolas and Aragorn left their horses and ran across the sand to where the distressed horse stood.  
  
Aragorn saw the glint of gold in the moonlight before Legolas did; wet red- gold hair, spilling out over the rocks. They rounded the corner of the huge stone and stopped.  
  
There, with her body half-submerged, lay an elf-maiden, her eyes closed. Her skin was deathly pale and she was fairly covered in blood. Harsh bruises stood out on every inch of skin that was exposed, which, owing to her torn clothing, was quite a bit.  
  
"Manwe!" Legolas cried softly as they kneeled beside her. The gentle tug of the current pulled her hair out onto the water and rinsed the blood from the very bottom of her cheek and chin. Aragorn reached a hand down to her neck and felt for a pulse.  
  
"She's alive," he murmured. "I do not know how, but she is."  
  
"Not for long," Legolas said, noticing the thin ribbon of blood that leaked from her mouth. Something told him that it was no mere split lip.  
  
The red horse nudged the she-elf gently, it whinny softer and worried. "I guess this is where he was trying to lead us," Aragorn said gravely. "We'll need to make a camp. Come, let's get her out of the water."  
  
-----  
  
So what's up with this chick? More in Chapter Four! PLEASE REVIEW! Oh, and, if any Elvish officiandos want to help me out, I've got something coming up that's going to take waaaay more than the meager skills I have. Also, I hate the way that beautiful language looks without the accents... does anyone know how to do them? And italics? That would really help me out. Thanks!  
  
Elvish translations:  
  
Tulin, tulin! Mellonro! Mellomme, hautalye! = Come, come! He is a friend! I am a friend, calm yourself! Ava linnalye! = Don't go! 


	4. The Healing

Soul of Elves  
  
By Solara  
  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize right off the bat weren't created by me; they are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, with whom I claim no equity. Any characters you *don't* recognize right away, though, are mine.  
  
A/N: Thanks so much, reviewers! You make me so happy...  
  
For those who are wondering, here's a small announcement: I don't plan to make this story a romance in any way. Legolas is *mine*! (Hee, okay, no. But I wish.) In all seriousness, though, I really don't expect that this will be a romance of any kind, unless the characters truly pull me in that direction, which I don't see happening. No, no slash, no LegsyRomance, and NO Mary Sue.  
  
This chapter is sort of angsty. Well, *I* cried, but that could be because I had Billy Joel's "Lullabye" playing on my WinAmp while I was writing the sad part... yeah, that could have something to do with it... G  
  
Also, I take a few liberties in this story with both Legolas' and Celeborn's families... who knows if Legolas has brothers and sisters and if his mother is dead, but in my universe, all those things are true. And as I could find no record of Celeborn *not* having brothers, I made some up. Flame me if you must. :)  
  
Asterisks (*) denote thoughts; double slashes (//) denote flashbacks.  
  
Setting: Ten years after RotK.  
  
*****  
  
Chapter Four- Healing  
  
-----  
  
A fire was blazing yet again by the time Legolas had carried the unconscious elf into the woods; Aragorn had hurried ahead with the horses and their supplies. "Lay her down here," he told Legolas, who set the maiden down on Aragorn's cloak spread over the soft, mossy ground.  
  
They set to work immediately, their hands moving quickly, not wanting to voice their fears that their lost elf was perhaps beyond any healing. Aragorn got out his knife and cut off what remained of her tunic, revealing a torso that looked almost otherworldly in its damage.  
  
"Five- no- six ribs broken," Legolas said with a grimace as he removed his own cloak and covered her with it. Aragorn tore strips of her sodden shirt and began bandaging the bleeding cut on her arm.  
  
"This looks fresh," he mentioned. "Perhaps she sustained it in the chase."  
  
*What being could do this?* Legolas thought, his mind whirling as he wrapped a bandage around the gash on the she-elf's forehead. *How could such savagery possibly exist among men without our knowing it?*  
  
Aragorn seemed to read his friend's mind. "I cannot even begin to imagine who the culprit could be," he said, a severe scowl on his face. "Gondor and Rohan owe their very lives to the elves, and while there are rogue tribes living in every wood, this kind of violence towards Elfkind is unthinkable."  
  
They had bandaged every serious wound; now Legolas' eyes fell on the elf's shoulder. It was undoubtedly dislocated. "Thank the Valar she is unconscious," he said softly, reaching for her arm. "Ready?"  
  
Aragorn, who was positioned near her head, placed both hands on her face to hold her lest she awoke and nodded. "Do it."  
  
Legolas jerked the arm and it slid into place more smoothly than he had expected. "That will heal well," he said with relief.  
  
Blood still trickled from the she-elf's mouth, however, and they could not ignore it for much longer. "What do you think- a lung?" Aragorn asked, wincing despite himself.  
  
"A lung, or perhaps the stomach," Legolas replied, his eyes anxious. "Either way, the wound is too grave for us to heal."  
  
A sudden whisper among the trees caught his attention. The moonlight seemed to intensify for a moment, brightening the small campsite and making the she-elf's odd red hair glint. He gazed around in awe as the whispers intensified.  
  
"...Legolas?" He realized with a jolt that Aragorn had been speaking to him. The former ranger now sat back on his heels and looked sideways at Legolas. "Are you all right?"  
  
Legolas shook his head ever-so-slightly, and the whispers diminished. "I'm fine, it was just..." He looked around, then back to Aragorn. "Nothing."  
  
"I was wondering about her looks," Aragorn continued after a suspicious pause. "Look at her hair- have you ever seen that color on an elf?"  
  
Legolas had to admit he had not. "But there are some elves who have a hint of red in their dark hair," he countered.  
  
"Look how small she is," Aragorn said. "Look at her size. She is the size of a human woman."  
  
The she-elf certainly was diminutive. She-elves were very different from women in that aspect; their height equaled that of the opposite sex. But this one was as slight and small as the Lady Eowyn. Legolas was at a loss.  
  
"I have no explanation," he replied as he reached down to brush his fingers against the bruised skin of her face.  
  
It happened again; the whispers whirled around him, the moonlight intensified, and this time, he felt a distinct jolt when he touched her skin. Holding his palm against her, the jolt settled into a steady hum, like a swarm of bees. *But more musical,* he thought, confused. *What is that?*  
  
Feeling very strange, he watched his hand move down and push the cloak away from the she-elf's injured ribs. Placing his hand directly over where her lungs would be, the soft humming came back, only this time it was louder, and the whispers surrounded him, closing in. The moonlight brightened the forest into day-  
  
Suddenly, he was thrown forward, into a jumble of images and sounds he couldn't place. He saw himself surrounded by elves on horses, a scouting party, it looked like; then he flashed to the face of the Lady Galadriel, who smiled at him and held out her arms. "Come," she whispered.  
  
But her face was torn away as the next image pounded him, and the next, and the next; a she-elf with dark hair like Arwen's laughing and pointing at something, then a waterfall, then- to his shock- Aiwendil, sitting on a log restringing her bow, and then a cliff. Legolas gasped, unable to move, vaguely aware of the campfire, and Aragorn, and his hand resting on the injured elf's chest; time there seemed to be halted, however, while the images rushed past him at a disturbing pace.  
  
Shock flooded him as he was jolted into a horrifying scene; six elves lay on the forest floor around a campfire, slain, their eyes watching him eerily. He recognized the dark-haired she-elf who resembled Arwen. Her glassy eyes were upon him, accusing him, and he felt a scream rip from his throat. Then he was thrown into another scene, a town; a tavern, where the awful feeling of the cold wet cloth pressed down on his senses again; then he was thrown yet again, this time into an image of fire. A dirty flask was pressed to his mouth and a liquid poured down his throat- only it wasn't liquid, it was fire, and it scorched him so that he could not cry out. A grey-skinned face blurred into view, and then he was thrown onto his stomach and he felt a whip come down on his back-  
  
He yelled and was yanked into the forest; he was running on the path he and Aragorn had just traveled, but it was day, and he was being pursued. The image flipped infuriatingly to the same cliff he had seen before, and then, as terror bubbled up in his throat, the side of the cliff rushing past. He knew somehow that he was falling. Before he hit the bottom- the river, he realized suddenly- Lady Galadriel's face came to him again, smiling, glowing with beauty and purity.  
  
"You'll be safe now," she said.  
  
Legolas slammed back into the real world with a darkening rush; the fire glinted off the she-elf's red hair as he gasped for breath, blinking and shaking his head to rid himself of the horrible things he had just seen. His hand still lay on the she-elf's chest, which was suddenly warm.  
  
He turned to Aragorn, his eyes wide, and met even wider ones.  
  
"What- by the Name of the One- just happened?" Aragorn said, his voice low and oddly shaky.  
  
Legolas pulled his hand up from the maiden's chest; it took some effort, as if something was holding their skin together. The hum vibrated more loudly for a split second, then diminished. He held his hand in front of his face. It looked perfectly normal, but still thrummed with some unseen energy.  
  
"I have no idea," he responded in a whisper.  
  
---  
  
Aragorn was hurriedly unwrapping the food. "Here. Eat something."  
  
Legolas felt fine, if a little winded; but by the look on his friend's face, he guessed that his own appearance did not match his the way he felt. He accepted the lembas Aragorn held out and took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully.  
  
The she-elf lay ever still on Aragorn's cloak, but Legolas could not bear to look at the exposed side of her chest- the ribs he had touched. The sight of them had shocked him to the core mere moments ago.  
  
The bruises were gone.  
  
Aragorn adjusted the cloak after looking for himself, confirming his first glance with a quiet curse. The king rarely let profanity fly from his mouth, but the whole situation was just too odd- and, frankly, too frightening- to refrain.  
  
He sat in front of Legolas, crossing his legs and staring anxiously at his friend. "Tell me what just happened. Really, or I'm going to burst."  
  
If Legolas had wished for nothing more than to explain what had happened to Aragorn, he still couldn't have done it. "I honestly have no idea," he told the dark-haired man.  
  
"Well, what at least did you see? You looked like you weren't even here- like you left!"  
  
"I saw Lorien," Legolas replied after a pause. "Lorien, and elves I didn't recognize. And Aiwendil. And Galadriel. And then there was..." He tried to remember what had frightened him so, and it came to him. "Fire."  
  
Aragorn didn't speak, opting instead to let his winded friend gather his thoughts. "There were men," Legolas continued. "Men with grey skin. They were hurting... her, I suppose," he said, gesturing at the unconscious elf- maiden. "But I felt as thought I *was* her." He shook his head. "It was the strangest thing that has ever happened to me."  
  
After a few moments, Aragorn still hadn't spoken, and Legolas looked up. "Well? What did it look like happened?"  
  
Aragorn frowned. "The leaves stirred up suddenly- and you gave a great jerk, like something was holding your hand against her. Your eyes were closed," he said tersely, furrowing his brow. "I've only ever seen your eyes closed twice, and both times you were unconscious with grave wounds."  
  
*My eyes were closed,* Legolas thought with a tremor. It was true- his eyes rarely closed for more than a blink.  
  
"You looked like you were struggling against something for a few minutes," Aragorn continued. "And I looked at the she-elf's skin, under your hand, and it was healing." He looked straight at Legolas. "Her injuries mended right under your touch."  
  
They were silent for a good few minutes, both trying to sort through their tumbling thoughts. *I healed her with my hand,* Legolas thought. *That's impossible. It doesn't make sense.*  
  
"One thing is clear," Aragorn said. "We're going to have to go to Bree after all, and figure this out."  
  
Bree. Legolas had never been, and yet he knew somehow that the tavern among the images had been in Bree. Which meant that the elf-maiden had been in Bree.  
  
He glanced back at her; she was breathing much more easily. Aragon had wrapped the cloak all the way around her, and all that was visible was her face and her strangely-colored hair.  
  
*Who are you?*  
  
---  
  
Legolas arose at dawn the next morning, the gentle breeze stirring his hair lightly; he lay for a few moments after blinking his eyes awake, lost in thoughts about the mysterious maiden laying not three feet to his right. He had dreamed, again, of the images he had seen last night, but this time there was no fire or pain, only the beautiful waterfalls and glinting trees of Lorien. Again, he had seen Aiwendil, this time walking along a corridor with him and talking animatedly. The dark-haired she-elf had also been present; he had watched as she climbed at tree and beckoned down at him. Her voice had been so pleasant.  
  
"Miliar," he murmured, startled that the name came so easily to his tongue. "Miliar."  
  
He sat up and stretched his muscles, which ached slightly after the events of the previous night. His hand fluttered in front of his face, and he held it out again, searching for something amiss, *anything* that would provide an explanation of how he had been able to heal the she-elf's mortal injuries.  
  
The fingers were long and pale, and his palm carried a small smudge of dirt; other than that, there was nothing odd about his hand. He shook his head. *I have never had a healing power before,* he thought, bewildered. *I do not even know how I did it.*  
  
He noticed a small cut on his left wrist from where a branch had slashed him during his sprint through the woods last night. The wound was tiny, a mere scratch, yet it sent an annoying sting shooting up his arm. Struck by a sudden curiousness, he placed his right hand, the one he had been scrutinizing, over the wound and waited.  
  
Nothing. No whispers, no shocking plunge into a depthless pool of foreign images; his eyes did not close. The trees were quiet, and when he finally grew exasperated and removed his hand, the cut was still there, as annoying as ever.  
  
Apparently, the odd gift had been a one-time occurrence... or perhaps-  
  
He glanced over at the elf-maiden, whose eyes were closed. *She is still unconscious, then,* he sighed inwardly. Her chest moved up and down at an easy pace under his cloak, though, and her face, while pale, held none of the fear that had marred her visage the previous night, so he calmed.  
  
A flash of distress hit him suddenly as he remembered one of the images from his spell last night. *They whipped her!* he thought angrily, immediately horrified that the vile torture could be inflicted on such a fragile-looking creature. He moved quickly and quietly to her side and, with careful, smooth movements, managed to lift the side of her body gently so that he could peer at her bare back.  
  
Sure enough, harsh red lash marks stood out against the pale, bruised skin, some still oozing blood. *Why didn't these heal, then?* he wondered, swallowing the sick feeling that came up his throat at the sight of such damage. *By the Valar, what did they do to her...*  
  
She needed a healing ointment if she was going to be able to move at all without pain. Legolas could only imagine the strength it must have taken for her to escape through the woods in her condition. He set her gently back down, making sure she did not stir, then went to Aragorn, who lay sleeping on the other side of the now-smoldering fire.  
  
He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder; the king's eyes immediately flew open. "Peace," Legolas said quietly. "It's only me. I am going to go look for Athelas; her back needs ointment badly. I will be back soon."  
  
Aragorn nodded and stole a glance at the elf-maiden himself. Legolas went back to his bedroll and strapped on his bow and quiver before leaving the campsite and venturing deeper into the woods.  
  
His eyes darted around, searching for the familiar bushy weed that was the Athelas plant, but his mind could not stop spinning with thoughts. *Who is she? Where did she come from? She must be from Lorien, but I know of no other elves with hair that color...*  
  
The image of the six slain elves came into his mind again, and he flinched. *What she must have gone through... and I wonder where those elves are right now.* Elven bodies did not decay in death, and animals would not harm the bodies of elves; so somewhere in the woods, probably nearby, lay a horrifying, untouched scene.  
  
His thoughts had taken him far from the campsite; annoyed with himself, he focused on his search. Spying a bush of Athelas growing furtively between two other bushes, he pulled out his knife and leaned down to cut.  
  
A familiar tingle crawled up his spine. His bow was in his hand and an arrow notched in the blink of an eye.  
  
*Someone is here...* But it could not be the elf-maiden's horse, as the red stallion still lay protectively next to his mistress at the campsite. Legolas' keen eyes whipped through the trees, watching intently, his ears perked and listening for any sound that might betray the being that he felt sure was watching him-  
  
All at once, without warning, the smothering, invisible cloth, wet and cold, fell over his senses. He gasped and choked. *Fight it, fight it...* his mind urged, but he could not. The swirling fog pushed into his nose and mouth; he could see nothing but grey, and he could not breathe...  
  
He saw, as if in a wisp of memory, his own father; King Thranduil's face was a mask of grief as he stood, shoulders shaking, before a tomb. Legolas recognized it immediately as the white grave of his mother, Elistel. Grief choked him, and then, before he could cry out, the scene blurred. Arwen's Evenstar necklace was clasped in his hand, and he stared down at a sheer drop into a swirling river, knowing somehow that Aragorn was dead and would not be coming back this time... and then the image faded into one of his younger sister Lindomith screaming with grief as her dead child, killed by a spider in the darkness of Mirkwood, was carried back to the palace in the arms of a weeping Arafail. The image blurred again and again, each into a different, more heightened plane of sorrow, memories of events that he wanted to forget forever.  
  
Legolas could not breathe, could not move, and the grief was smothering him. He slumped over. A man stepped out from behind a tree in front of him and advanced- *His skin is grey,* Legolas realized with a start before falling more deeply into his ocean of pain.  
  
---  
  
Aragorn had been sitting next to the elf-maiden for less than a minute when her eyes flew open.  
  
He would have jumped in his surprise if she had not jerked away first; her eyes, which he could now see were an odd pale green, widened and a short cry ripped from her ragged throat.  
  
"Ava caure, ava caure! Mellonye," Aragorn attempted to soothe, and unlike her horse, the she-elf calmed. "I will not hurt you. You are safe."  
  
"You are not an elf," she said. Her voice was throaty and held an air of supreme dignity; Aragorn wondered if she was royalty after all.  
  
He spread his hands. "No, but I am a friend to elves."  
  
Her silver-green eyes were flickering around the trees nervously. "I am still in the forest?" she asked.  
  
"Yes. We pulled you out of the river. Do you remember anything?" Aragorn made sure to keep his voice gentle, but could not help pressing the maiden.  
  
She swallowed. "I jumped off the cliff." *Jumped?!* Aragorn thought, startled. "I woke up and managed to make it to the riverbank..." Aragorn could see her hands moving over her body underneath Legolas' cloak. She frowned. "Either I am misremembering, or I am somehow not as injured as I was in the river."  
  
"Alas, I have no explanation for your sudden health," he told her. "My companion had something to do with it, yet I do not understand how you healed so quickly, nor does he."  
  
She seemed not to care, and her eyes fell on his face. "Who are you?" she asked warily.  
  
He debated for a moment whether or not to give her the name Strider; after all, she was a stranger, and he wanted as few people as possible to know that the King of Gondor was out on his own. Still, Legolas had mentioned that he thought she was from Lorien, and Aragorn wanted to put her as much at ease as possible. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of Gondor," he said, hoping that would be enough for her. By the slight narrowing of her eyes, he could tell that she recognized the name as belonging to King Elessar and was attempting to discern if he was lying to her. "And you are?" he asked, trying to take her mind off his identity.  
  
She shifted slightly and winced before answering. "Caranna of Lorien."  
  
*Caranna. Gift of Red. Fitting,* thought Aragorn, glancing at her red-gold hair, bright even though it was matted with dirt and blood. "And your family?"  
  
"I am the niece of Lord Celeborn," she said shortly, as if she objected to his inquiry. He accepted her answer with a nod. An odd look crossed her face, and she scowled anew, looking at him with suspicion and a glint of fear in her eyes. "Where is my shirt?" she asked, her voice hard as metal.  
  
He stifled a laugh. "Bandaging your many wounds, my lady. I am sure my elf companion will allow you to borrow one of his."  
  
She sat up, moaning a little at the pain in her head; he set a hand on her arm to steady her, careful not to touch her shoulder. Clutching the cloak across her chest, she looked around. "You have an elf with you?"  
  
"Yes, he went to get some Athelas for your back-" as he spoke, he leaned and peered at her back himself, drawing a quick breath through his teeth when he saw the angry red welts. *What kind of man could do this to an elf? And a lady, at that!*  
  
"You must find him!" The alarm in her voice whipped his eyes to her face. "He is not safe!"  
  
"I assure you, my lady, he is quite capable of caring for himself-"  
  
"No, you don't understand!" Her eyes were wide with fear, and there was desperation in her voice. "The man who I was running from has a weapon, a weapon different from any other... your friend is in danger by himself! You must find him, and quickly!"  
  
Aragorn's heart leapt into his throat. *Of course,* he thought. *That odd spell he had, when he fell off Arod-*  
  
He jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword. "Stay with the horses," he told her, leaving her sitting by the smoking bivouac, Legolas' cloak held against her chest tightly.  
  
His feet pounded through the forest, matching the thunderous beating of his heart. *Why did we think the danger had passed? How could I be so stupid?* he berated himself as he searched wildly for any sign of his friend. *We find an elf beaten nearly to death, and Legolas is attacked by some invisible force...*  
  
Legolas had left no tracks for him to follow; the elf never did. Still, Aragorn ran on a straight path, knowing somehow that his friend lay very close ahead-  
  
A glint of gold caught his eye, spread out across the ground. He heard a faint moan.  
  
*No, no no-* he cried inwardly as he rounded a thicket of trees and saw Legolas on the ground, clutching his head. A man stood before the ailing elf, dressed all in black, his eyes and hair dark. In his hand was a short knife that glowed black, if such a thing were possible; inky darkness seemed to radiate from the blade. The man's arm was swinging down in a deadly arc toward Legolas' heart.  
  
A terrifying battle cry ripped from Aragorn's throat as he sprang towards the man and knocked the knife out of his hand with a severe kick. Startled, the man jumped back, then snarled at Aragorn. His skin was all grey, as if he were made from stone; Aragorn stared at him in awe and malice, breathing hard.  
  
"Leave off," the man hissed, his voice deep and tainted by an odd accent. "This is not your fight."  
  
"That is my friend you were trying to kill," Aragorn replied, his voice deathly cold, keeping his sword aimed at the man's throat. "And I usually do not take kindly to strange men killing my friends."  
  
The man hesitated, glancing at the knife on the ground, which now looked like a normal blade. "Don't even think about it," Aragorn barked.  
  
But the grey man lunged for the weapon with a cry; Aragorn rushed forward and brought his sword hilt down on the man's back. The grey man stopped for a moment, then spun out, his leg delivering a vicious kick at Aragorn's knees, dropping him and sending Anduril flying out of his hand. Throwing himself on Aragorn, they grappled, rolling around on the ground; Aragorn managed to land a punch on the man's jaw, throwing him off. Scrambling for his sword, Aragorn was attacked again from behind; the man's clasped fists struck the back of his neck with enough force to send stars shooting past his eyes. He collapsed.  
  
Just as he turned over and saw the grey man's foot sailing towards his head, the foot was no longer there. Neither was the man. Aragorn rolled over and saw the man pinned against a tree by two arrows lodged solidly in his gut.  
  
Legolas' hand closed on his arm and pulled him up. "Are you all right?" the elf asked as Aragorn shook the swimming stars out of his eyes.  
  
A quick nod confirmed his uninjured status, and they both moved to the dying man against the tree. His eyes were trained on them as they neared, his breath coming in short, bloody gasps.  
  
"Who are you?" Legolas shouted, obviously angry that he had been so easily incapacitated and attacked.  
  
The man did not answer, but a slow, quiet chuckle escaped his bloodstained lips. "Do you think this is funny?" Aragorn seethed, his voice like ice.  
  
"You... will not be able to escape..." the man choked. "My master- will see that every- elf- in Middle Earth- is his!"  
  
Legolas' mouth was a very tight, straight white line. The man, with one last cackle, gave a sickening cough and slumped over, held up by the arrows, the flow of blood from his stomach slowing to a trickle. Aragorn used the flat edge of his sword to nudge the man to the ground; the grey- skinned monstrosity fell with a thump and did not move.  
  
"He is dead," Aragorn said, for lack of anything better. He watched as the fine bones in Legolas' jaw clenched tightly, then released.  
  
"Are you sure you are all right?" his friend asked him, his gray eyes searching those of Aragorn, who nodded.  
  
"I'm fine. You?"  
  
Legolas, who in Aragorn's experience was quite a good liar, gave the most unconvincing smile the Gondor king had ever seen. "Fine," he said with a short nod. Aragorn did not believe him for a second.  
  
---  
  
After Aragorn son of Arathorn's hasty departure, Caranna had risen slowly, getting used to what pained her and what parts of her body could support her weight. Her shoulder was no longer dislocated, but it ached dully; her head, too, was leaden and pounded with the same old hammers. Her chest, however, was fine.  
  
*How is this possible?* she thought, bewildered, as she removed the cloak covering her, staring down at her skin, which was smoother and whiter than it had been for nearly two weeks. *They beat me nearly to a pulp, and I surely tore a hole in my lung getting out of the river! Yet now I am healed.*  
  
She remembered Aragorn saying something about his elf companion, and how he had something to do with it... *Nay, I do not remember,* she thought, frustrated. Her mind was clouded and blank, with not a scrap of the previous night's events besides what had happened in the river.  
  
The campfire had dwindled to a small, smoldering pile of smoking bits during the night, but even for the earliness of the morn, the sun was now high enough in the sky for her to see clearly. Two bedrolls lay neatly packed on the ground, along with two traveling packs and what looked like a bow and a quiver of arrows. *The elf's?* she wondered, then threw out the possibility. *No, not unless he has had no wilderness training at all would he leave them. They must belong to the man.* She remembered that the man had drawn a sword before running out of the camp. *Ai, would that I still had my sword!*  
  
A formidable archeress she was, no question; Aiwendil had been a fine tutor. But Caranna's real talent lay with her sword, which had always brought startled whispers from her fellow warriors. Elves did train with swords, but only briefly, and they nearly always favored the neat, precise art of aiming a bow and arrow. Caranna's swift skill and powerful instinct- and preference- for her sword were a distinct oddity.  
  
*A bow is a handy weapon when attacking or defending from afar,* thought Caranna, *but there is nothing like the familiar song the sword rings with when wielded just right. Oh, Rilma, Rilma, would that I had you with me!* Her sword was dear to her; named "glittering light", it had been given to her by her father, Celeborn's brother, who had died many centuries ago. It was the most valuable thing she possessed.  
  
Something nudged her back, and she winced slightly before turning to find Airuin lying on the ground behind her. "Airuin!" she gasped, turning and laying a grateful arm on his red coat. "I did not notice you!" Her faithful horse nipped her fingers lovingly as she stroked his velvety nose. Warmth flooded her heart; Airuin was all right.  
  
The image flew into her mind of her six dead companions, Miliar's face the clearest of all. "No, don't think of it..." she whispered aloud, tamping the memory back down into the recesses of her mind. She had to stay clear- headed; she could not face her grief quite yet.  
  
She rose to her feet slowly, breathing hard against the clanging in her head, and wrapped the cloak tightly around herself. It was made of a very soft, dark green cloth, and smelled of woodsmoke. *Mirkwood colors,* she realized. *Aragorn's friend must be from Mirkwood.*  
  
A pang hit her heart, unbidden; she did not know why, but she felt a distinct sense of worry for the elf. She did not want any other to go through what she had been through, and if Aragorn was too late-  
  
Or what if Aragorn died? She shuddered. Then she would be alone, with three horses and no sword, and barely any clothing, at the mercy of that... beast. *NO!*  
  
"Clothes. Got to find some clothes," she murmured to herself as she opened the pack nearest to her. To her delight, she found a white tunic, relatively clean, and a brown shirt with long sleeves that tied in the front. In no time, she had discarded the cloak and donned the garments. Her leggings were in very good shape, and her soft leather boots, laced up around her calves, looked no worse for the wear. *Almost perfect.*  
  
She picked up the quiver and strapped it on over the other elf's clothing; her back screamed again with fire, but she gritted her teeth and let the quiver fall into place. The sleeves of the brown shirt slid up her arms, too large, as she reached behind her to adjust the quiver over the bagginess of the garments; the white tunic fell past her waist, so she tucked the front and back ends into the waistband of her leggings, annoyed.  
  
*Curse my size,* she thought to herself angrily. The clothing would have easily fit any other she-elf, but then again, she had always been smaller than the others.  
  
Dressed and armed, she walked over to the white and brown horses watching her with seeming interest. They were magnificent animals, as large and powerful as her own Airuin; the brown horse was saddled, so she supposed it belonged to the man. Her eyes widened as she peered at the ornate embroidery in the finely wrought leather of the horse's reins. *He wasn't lying about being King of Gondor,* she thought with some surprise. *What by the Valar is he doing out here, dressed in Elven clothing and with no other companion than the Mirkwood elf?*  
  
Before she had time to ponder the ramifications of Aragorn's identity, a rustle in the trees made her raise the bow and notch an arrow within a single breath.  
  
Aragorn came walking out of the woods into the clearing, followed by a slender, blond-haired elf with gray eyes, dressed in more Mirkwood colors. With a sigh of relief, she lowered the bow.  
  
"Well, I see you have found yourself something to wear," Aragorn said with a slight smile, his arms crossed over his chest. "And you are looking quite well indeed." His eyes fell pointedly to the baggy mess around her waist, and to her horror, she felt her cheeks burn.  
  
She raised her chin. "I couldn't stay under that cloak forever, could I? And who knows whether or not you would come back wounded- or even at all?" she retorted, her voice as haughty as she could make it, pleased by the way his eyebrows lifted.  
  
The elf to Aragorn's right looked much graver, and vaguely tired; he stepped forward, however, and moved into the camp, followed by Aragorn. "I am glad to see you awake and about," he told her, his voice smooth and well- controlled. "And you are welcome to my clothing, of course; we did make a mess of yours, after all." With those words, he sent a reproachful look to Aragorn.  
  
She looked at the elf more closely; he was dressed well, in fine clothing, and the bow he grasped in his hand was beautifully ornate. She suspected that it came from Lorien.  
  
Lorien... that was who he reminded her of! Manwe, but he did look like Aiwendil; his face held the same fine structure and high cheekbones, and his eyes were an identical silvery-gray color. But he was not of Lorien. She searched her memory for what she knew about Aragorn son of Arathorn's dealings with Mirkwood elves, and with a jolt it came to her. *I can't believe it took me this long,* she thought, chastising herself for not jumping to the conclusion earlier.  
  
"You'd be Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, wouldn't you?" she said.  
  
He smiled; obviously he was not surprised by her powers of deduction. "Well- reasoned. And you are?"  
  
"Caranna of Lorien, niece to Lord Celeborn," Aragorn replied for her, brushing past her and picking up his pack. "And she does not remember anything past when she-" he made sure to emphasize the word- "*jumped* off the cliff."  
  
She glowered. "That's right. I jumped," she countered, her voice hot. "I had been held captive for nearly a week, and I would rather have died than fail in my escape. You saw what they did to me."  
  
Aragorn's eyebrows knitted together, and his eyes roved over her bruised cheek and the gash on her forehead. "Indeed, I did, and I still do. Had I been in your position I may have made the same choice."  
  
Legolas had looked odd during this last exchange, and she turned to him. "You should not go off by yourself anymore," she told him softly. "That man who held me captive, who chased me... he is more savage than orcs, and he delights in the pain of elves."  
  
"He is dead." The three words, as pleasing as Legolas' voice was, were enough to send shockwaves of relief and annoyance running through her body. "He attacked me in the forest just now, and he would have killed Aragorn. I sent two arrows into his stomach." He noticed the look on her face. "You are upset?"  
  
She shrugged, turning away. "I wanted to kill him myself."  
  
Aragorn's light chuckle distracted her from the pain she still saw present in Legolas' eyes, and she whirled, exasperated, hiding her grimace at the pain that shot through her head when she did so. "What?" she demanded. His blue eyes looked back at her, filled with mirth and... something else. Recognition?  
  
"You remind me of someone," he replied cryptically, then continued packing up the camp. Legolas came up next to her and held out an odd-looking knife; the wood of its handle was so dark that it looked as though it had been burned.  
  
"Do you know what this is?" he asked. She shook her head.  
  
"I've never seen it before," she told him. "The man you killed carried it?"  
  
Legolas nodded. "It has a strange power," he said, his voice quiet, and the pain in his eyes grew stronger. "I felt it last night, before we found the trail you had left through the woods, and then I felt it again before he attacked me just now. It felt like-"  
  
"A blanket," Caranna said hurriedly, nodding. "Something wet and cold, covering your sight and hearing?"  
  
"Yes, exactly. You felt it?"  
  
"It is how they captured me in Bree," she replied bitterly. "How they killed-"  
  
She stopped, biting her lip, forcing back the grief that was growing ever stronger in her mind. Miliar's face leapt before her eyes, and it was all she could do not to sob; her heart wrenched painfully.  
  
"Nothing," she said. "It doesn't matter now."  
  
---  
  
They rode quickly back through the forest, their horses having been rested thoroughly the night before; Caranna of Lorien's horse matched Arod and Roheryn in speed and agility, and his red coat gleamed in the sun.  
  
Legolas stole a quick glance at Caranna as they rode. She moved easily on a horse, that was to be sure; she had commandeered Aragorn's bow and quiver eagerly, so it was obvious she possessed some skill in archery. He had not been exaggerating when he had told her he was glad to see her up and relatively active. Even now, as she rode, he could see how tightly her lips were drawn and the thin crinkle of pain between her brows, but she was handling the understandable discomfort admirably. Legolas knew she would heal.  
  
*And heal on her own,* he thought, still shaken by the way his hand had somehow mended the torn bones and organs within her body. She had not mentioned anything to him about the experience the previous night, so he assumed she did not remember it; but he could not help but wonder at the images, images he now believed to be her own memories, that he had seen.  
  
Aragorn rode just ahead of them, and Caranna was on his right, so it was not difficult for him to speak quietly to her. "Being from Lorien, are you acquainted with Lady Aiwendil?"  
  
She looked at him, one red eyebrow raised, and nodded. "We are more than acquaintances; she is- was, really- my archery instructor while I was in combat training," she replied. "Do you know her?"  
  
Legolas was struck at her words by the sudden memory of Aiwendil standing in front of a line of students, demonstrating a complicated body-twist shot. He concentrated on the faces of the students, and sure enough, there in his memory was a maiden with golden-red hair, pulled back and bound so that it was not so conspicuous among the light blonds and dark browns of her peers. He had visited Lorien for Aiwendil's brother's marriage nearly four centuries ago, and had stood and watched, amused, while she gave instruction to the young elves in training.  
  
"Now I remember you," he said to Caranna with a smile. "Your hair is not easily forgotten."  
  
As if on cue, a fiery curl drifted in front of her face, and she pushed it aside with an annoyed swat. "Indeed, I never understood where the color came from," she retorted, her voice holding an edge. Obviously, it was a sensitive subject for her.  
  
*She certainly is odd-looking,* Legolas thought. Her hair had the typical wave common to Lorien females, but the color was unlike anything he had ever seen in an elf. Her eyes, too, were strange, a pale, silvery-green color, like the sun glinting off a pool in the forest. Her face held not the beauty of Arwen and Aiwendil, but her piercing eyes and hair and her slightly darker skin- rosy and tanned instead of translucent, blue-toned white like Arwen's- made her interesting-looking, if not necessarily pretty.  
  
"Your mother and father do not share your looks?" Legolas pressed, trying to discern her parentage. Celeborn had had three brothers, to his knowledge, and the last living one had died over seven hundred years ago, when Legolas was still a youth in the house of King Thranduil.  
  
"My father looked like his brother, my uncle, the lord Celeborn," Caranna replied quietly. "As for my mother, she died shortly after I was born. I do not remember her, and it pains my uncle to speak of her."  
  
She gave no name. Hearing the pain in her voice, Legolas did not press for it; it was inconsequential, and his compassion ruled out. "Are you related to Aiwendil at all?" he heard Caranna ask him, not at all timidly. *She resembles her uncle in manner, that much is clear,* he thought with amusement.  
  
"Our mothers were of the same line, but very distantly related." Caranna seemed to be satisfied with this answer. "We trained together in Lorien, actually," Legolas continued with a light voice. "We were close friends. In fact, we once convinced a judge at an archery competition that we were twins. He was most disgruntled when he discovered our prank."  
  
So strong was the memory that he could practically hear the disapproval in his father's voice when he had, albeit with a glint of stifled merriment in his eye, scolded his young son. He looked over at Caranna, who suddenly looked grieved.  
  
"Did my words somehow hurt you, my lady?" he asked, startled. She blinked hard, and he was almost certain he saw a tear fall.  
  
"I was just remembering a similar trick my friend-" her voice cracked, but she continued- "my friend Miliar and I executed at our first training session. We switched identities, and it took our archer master Vorondil two full weeks to realize what we had done."  
  
*Miliar*, Legolas thought, and the shards of the dream he had had the previous night after healing Caranna came back to him. He remembered the dark-haired elf laughing and pointing, and climbing the tree, and riding in the scouting party; then he remembered her glassy, blank, accusing stare, her body laying slain and covered in blood by a campfire. A sick feeling settled in his stomach.  
  
"Caranna," he said softly, "what happened to you? Why were you all the way in the Shire by yourself?"  
  
Her could see her facial muscles twitching mightily, and he knew she was trying desperately to hold her composure. She swallowed and answered, "We were on a scouting party from Lorien; we had been gone for a little over a year. Two weeks ago we made camp in the Old Forest outside Bree, and when the fire died down I went to gather more firewood, and-"  
  
But her breaking voice would not let her continue. Legolas tried to understand what she was feeling and found that he had no such comparable experience; death had always come to those he loved one at a time. He thought back to the many scouting parties he had taken part in when he was younger; he tried to imagine what it would feel like to stumble upon all of his companions dead, and found that he could not fathom it. All he had was Caranna's memory, which was grievous enough in itself.  
  
"They were all dead," she whispered. "I didn't even hear anything. The grey men killed them without a single sound."  
  
"It wasn't your fault," he said softly, trying to soothe her, but the words sounded hollow even to him. "You must open yourself to your grief."  
  
She shook her head. "I cannot. They are in this wood not far from here, and I will find them and put them at rest, but I will not let the sorrow I feel cloud my senses fully until I have had revenge on the men that murdered them." Her voice was hardened.  
  
He frowned. "Beware of the thirst for revenge, my lady. It may drive you mad."  
  
Her eyes, such an odd pale green, stared back at him from behind a curtain of carefully contained tears. Her face was like stone. *She pays my words no heed,* Legolas realized. *Her heart has been made black by what was done to her.* He sighed.  
  
By the straight line of his back, Legolas could tell that Aragorn had been listening. "Aragorn," he called. "We will need to take a slower ride through the Old Forest when we get there. The Lady Caranna has some business to attend to." Aragorn looked over his shoulder and nodded.  
  
"Thank you," Caranna said softly. She shot him a grateful look. "And how is it that the Prince of Mirkwood and the King of Gondor are allowed this far into the north without some contingent of guards?" she asked more loudly, aiming her voice to the front.  
  
Aragorn chuckled ahead of them and Legolas couldn't help a grin. "Truly, I am not sure my wife Arwen was in her right mind when she let us go," the dark-haired king replied over his shoulder. "If we are not in Rivendell exactly five days from now, I am sure she will never let me out of her sight again."  
  
This prompted a grin from Caranna. "I met the Lady Arwen once, when I went to Imladris years ago," she said. "I have often thought of her since then. Is she well?"  
  
"She looks all right to me," Aragorn responded with a wink before turning in his saddle and facing front again.  
  
It was several more hours before they reached a stream and dismounted to let the horses drink. Caranna slipped from her horse's back with more than just a wince; a small cry escaped her lips before she bit down on them.  
  
"You should be easier on yourself," Aragorn told her. "You are still far from healed."  
  
The three sat on the ground, and Aragorn brought out the food supplies. "Speaking of that," Caranna said, looking pointedly at Legolas, "perhaps someone will explain to me how a crushed ribcage and a torn lung healed in a single night?"  
  
Legolas was instantly uncomfortable, but he knew that she deserved the truth about her miraculous recovery. "I'm afraid that I can do no better than describe it to you, my lady," he began. "Aragorn and I had bandaged the rest of your wounds and set your injured shoulder, and I was just beginning to realize that the damage to your body was too great for us to heal."  
  
"Then how did you-"  
  
"Patience," Aragorn said, motioning to Legolas, who, avoiding Caranna's silver-green stare, continued.  
  
"I heard something in the trees. A whisper, almost- or many whispers, many voices. I could not hear what they were saying, yet somehow my hand put itself right over your wounded chest, and-" He caught both his companions' wide eyes, and hurried through the rest of the explanation, not understanding his discomfort. "I do not know what exactly happened. All I know is that I was somehow seeing things I had never seen before in my life, through- well, what seemed like, anyway- your eyes," he finished, nodding at Caranna.  
  
Her brow crinkled. "I don't understand- you saw... what? My memories?" Her voice sounded tight.  
  
Legolas shrugged. "I do not know for certain, my lady. I saw Lorien, and I saw Aiwendil and Galadriel, and then I saw..." He paused, not wanting to cause her pain.  
  
But she understood. "You saw the scouting party," she finished in a half- whisper.  
  
Still uncomfortable, Legolas nodded. "Then I came back into the world and Aragorn was looking at me like I had suddenly grown a second head. And you were healed. That is all I know."  
  
Caranna seemed shell-shocked. Aragorn rested his elbows on his knees and tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. "Yet the only wound you healed was the mortal one," he said. "Why weren't the rest of her injuries helped?"  
  
"I wish I knew," Legolas replied truthfully. "I tried this morning to do the same thing on a small scratch of my own. Nothing happened."  
  
Caranna's face was still blank. "Caranna?" Aragorn said gently.  
  
Her lips were pursed as she looked at Legolas. "I was remembering something, something Lady Galadriel once told me..." She shook her head. "It is nothing. I cannot remember. Perhaps I will ask her when I finally return home."  
  
She got to her feet and swayed for a moment, scowling at the two males who were immediately standing next to her holding her arms to support her. "I am not made of glass," she said hotly, then turned and picked up her borrowed bow and quiver. "I need to bathe. I will not go far. I will take Airuin with me, so if he comes crashing back in here, you can be sure that I have been attacked," she told them with a slightly sarcastic grin.  
  
"Airuin?" Aragorn asked.  
  
"The horse," she said haughtily, narrowing her eyes. "Whom did you think I meant?"  
  
Before Aragorn could come back with a response, she turned and shouted "Tulin!" at the red stallion before walking off down the bank of the river.  
  
"She certainly displays the manner of royalty," Aragon said bitingly when she was out of earshot.  
  
Legolas took his seat once more and bit off a piece of lembas. *Airuin,* he thought. *'Red flame'. Red hair. A red horse. Everything about her is red. And odd.*  
  
Aragorn pulled out the black-handled knife from his pack and held it up to the light, trying to discern from where it drew its power. "You say that this thing can smother all of your senses?" he asked absently, intrigued by the way the light bounced black off the dark grey blade.  
  
"I believe so, yes, if that is indeed what the man was using."  
  
"It was glowing black when he wielded it," Aragorn told Legolas. "As if it was radiating darkness. He was about to plunge it into your heart."  
  
Legolas shivered; he had been drowning so deeply in sorrowful memories that he had had no idea what the man was doing. "I am grateful, then, for your timely entrance."  
  
"I do not think this is a normal blade," Aragorn murmured pensively, pulling it down to his lap and turning it over in his hands. "I do not think it would have cut you. I think it would have done to you what was done to those elves found near Bree; turned you grey, killed you without inflicting a wound." Casual as his words were, Aragorn could not hide his shudder at the thought. "I wonder..." he said, then with a sudden, sharp movement, flicked the blade against his thumb roughly.  
  
Legolas started. "What are you-" He was cut off by awe as Aragorn held up his thumb with a strange look on his face. There was no cut. A black smear was all that remained on his friend's finger, and even that was fading rapidly until it was no more than a shadow of grey.  
  
"It was not painful at all," Aragorn said, examining his thumb, which should have been sliced deeply by his motion. "It merely felt hot to the touch."  
  
Shaking his head, Legolas stared at the knife. "How is that possible? And why is it not affecting me the way it did before? I feel nothing."  
  
"It was glowing black when you were affected by it," his friend replied. "Perhaps it can only be wielded properly by those grey men."  
  
"Perhaps," Legolas replied, but he was still uneasy. "Either way, I think it would be wise to keep it with you, and hidden well."  
  
Aragorn nodded his affirmation and placed the black knife into his pack. Caranna came walking back up at that moment, leading Airuin with a hand on his back, her hair wet and falling around her face. "That was fast," Aragorn remarked.  
  
"Are you suggesting that I might not have fully conquered my filth?" Caranna's sharp tongue replied.  
  
Aragorn laughed this time, full and deep, and patted the ground as an indication that she should sit. "Nay, my lady, you look cleaner than the water itself," he told her, still chuckling.  
  
She certainly did look much better, Legolas had to admit. The residual blood had been rinsed from her skin and her cleaned hair, though wet, shone much brighter. He watched as her hands, now clear white instead of streaked with dirt, reached for a piece of the lembas bread.  
  
"Do you plan to take me to Imladris?" she asked, to neither of them in particular, as she took an eager bite. The ends of the too-long sleeves of Legolas' brown shirt fell over her hand and she pushed them back absently.  
  
"We do not plan to take you anywhere," Aragorn said half-facetiously. "But we would certainly endure- I mean, enjoy- your company were you to join us on our journey."  
  
She shot him a withering look. "It doesn't seem like I have much of an option, does it, King Elessar?" Her hands disappeared in the sleeves again and with an annoyed huff she wriggled them out.  
  
Aragorn bit back his amusement. "No, it does not, especially since I would definitely not want you captured again."  
  
"Wouldn't you, I wonder?" she retorted, pushing back the sleeves yet again, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.  
  
Legolas watched her struggle with the flopping arms of his shirt, a grin spreading across his face; she set down the lembas and made a sound of supreme annoyance in the back of her throat as her hands vanished once again.  
  
"Allow me," he said, tying the sleeve strings that dangled from her wrists and solving the problem. She looked at him with a small scowl and mumbled her thanks.  
  
*Yes,* he thought, *there's no doubt she grew up treated as a princess of Lorien.*  
  
---  
  
"Where are they, my lady?"  
  
Legolas' smooth voice broke through her senses as she slid off Airuin's back; they had reached the place from where she had fled in grief and fear two weeks ago, and Caranna knew her face must have paled considerably. "I think they're... through here," she answered, her own voice sounding lifeless and very far away.  
  
She was barely aware of Legolas and Aragorn dismounting and following close behind her as she stepped carefully through the woods. The trees shimmered and shivered all around her; she could feel the death surrounding the place as if it were a choking fog. In a pile not five feet away lay the branches and sticks she had been collecting for the fire. Leading away from the pile were her tracks, visible even now, as if the woods had made an effort to conserve the place and trap it in time until she returned.  
  
//Six pairs of eyes stared at her, six lifeless gazes; the skin on her friends' faces looked somehow odd...//  
  
She took a few more steps forward, and the air grew colder. The bodies of her friends lay but ten more steps through the trees.  
  
"You do not have to come," she said, turning suddenly to the man and elf who trailed her.  
  
Legolas' eyes glittered strangely, and Aragorn's jaw was clenched tight, but they shook their heads. "You will need help," Aragorn told her. "And I would not leave anyone to do this task alone."  
  
With a small nod of thanks, she resumed her course through the trees, her breath coming more and more quickly, her mind spinning with the sound of Miliar's laughter and her own voice screaming her friend's name- *MiliarMiliarmiliarmiliarmiliar...*  
  
Just as she had done on that terrible night, she stumbled into the clearing and stopped still.  
  
There they lay, exactly as they did in her mind, exactly as she had left them. *When I ran away,* she shouted inwardly. *You coward! You ran for your own life when you should have died with them! Oh, Miliar...*  
  
She moved forward, closing in, and it was at that moment when she noticed something odd.  
  
"Their skin!" Legolas gasped behind her, and she thought for a moment that she was going to collapse as she stared in horror at Miliar's frozen face. Her friend's skin was grey, exactly like the skin of the man who had tortured her; looking around wildly at the other dead faces, she saw that they exhibited the same oddity. "Manwe," she cried. "What has been done to them? They are changed!"  
  
Aragorn knelt beside Miliar's body, examining the bloodstains. "These are not mortal wounds," he said quietly. "I believe that her life was taken in the same way as the elves near Bree. It was no sword that killed her."  
  
Caranna walked slowly around the circle, checking each face, finding the disturbing shade of grey present in every single one. "They are all the same," she said, sickened.  
  
Legolas moved to her side. "What shall we do with them?" he asked softly, his voice betraying how much the scene disturbed him.  
  
Gazing down at Miliar's face, Caranna heard her friend laughing once more, saw her climbing up through the branches of the tree outside Caranna's bedroom in her mind's eye. Miliar's face blurred.  
  
"We'll put them where they belong," Caranna replied, her voice thick with tears.  
  
An hour later, they had managed to carefully place each body high in the branches of six different trees in the grove. With a rock, Caranna had carved the first letter of each of her friends' names on their respective tree; as she scratched out the last of the 'M' on Miliar's tree, she dared to look up.  
  
Her friend was suspended, utterly frozen with death, among the branches as if she was sitting of her own accord; her dark hair hung down and fluttered in the breeze. She was nothing more than an eerie black silhouette against the sun and sky.  
  
//"Come on, 'Ranna! Come up with me!" Miliar called, her light voice sparkling through the chilly winter air as she climbed ever higher. "The trees won't drop you!"  
  
"I like my feet on the ground, thank you," Caranna replied and was rewarded by her friend's laughter.  
  
"Don't be silly!" Miliar paused in her movements and flung her arms out to either side, throwing her head back and closing her eyes. "I feel like I could fly!"//  
  
The single carved letter suddenly burned into Caranna's brain with the intensity of fire. The rock slipped from her hand. She leaned against the tree, shaking, as the memory of her friend grew to a deafening roar in her ears-  
  
*ComewithmecomewithmecomewithmecomecomecomeCARANNA-*  
  
A moan slid from her throat as she fell to her knees, intensifying to a shrill wail of stabbing, blinding grief. She clenched her fists against her eyes as tears spilled down her cheeks, scalding her skin; her throat grew ragged as she screamed out her pain. *Miliar, Miliar, why didn't you fight? Why couldn't I have taken you with me to gather the wood? Why did I run away?* Sorrow pumped through her veins like a cold stream; grief choked her, bubbled up in her stomach, spun around in her head. *There was never a time when I did not know you! Miliar, WAKE UP! I NEED YOU!*  
  
She felt a hand on her shoulder, but did not turn as Legolas kneeled next to her. His soft voice began singing the prayer for the dead. Aragorn stood behind them, a hand over his eyes.  
  
Dirt trickled through her fingers. She stared at her hands, still bruised and mottled from her ordeal, now being splashed with the tears that dripped off her face like rainwater. Whatever happened, she did not think she could bear to stand up, to walk away and leave Miliar in the tree...  
  
*I never did climb up after you,* she thought bitterly. *I never saw the point.*  
  
Miliar would never ask her again.  
  
She sobbed openly, leaning down so that her forehead touched the mossy ground, her fists pounding lightly against the soft earth as Legolas finished his lament. The forest grew quiet; the air was still and the trees did not whisper, and the only sounds were her soft sobs.  
  
Aragorn's hand touched her back lightly after what felt like forever. "My lady, we cannot linger any more," he said softly, as if he regretted it.  
  
Caranna sat back on her heels and looked up at Miliar, cradled gently by the branches of a mourning tree that would never let her drop.  
  
"Fly away, Miliar," she whispered.  
  
With Legolas' aid, she got to her feet, then walked to Airuin and mounted his strong back. "Where is the bow?" she asked, her voice hoarse. Aragorn, seated upon his own horse, handed it to her silently, and she clutched it, a dangerous glint in her eye.  
  
"Let us go to Bree," she said. "These grey men will not be able to hide from me for long."  
  
---  
  
End of chapter! What did you think? Did you like it? Hate it? Does Caranna annoy the crap out of you? Because she sure bothers me... *slap* Ow! She hit me! Okay, okay, I was kidding, I like you.  
  
PLEASE don't forget to review! It only takes a second and I could really use input! 


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